For Good
by ohwhatprovidence
Summary: It was an accident. Obviously. No one plans to get pregnant in their sophomore year of high school, and no one plans to get pregnant by Noah Puckerman ever. Puckleberry. AU from Mash-Up onward.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So, yeah. I've been writing Fanfiction for, like, five million years, and I'm pretty sure I've had at least ten accounts here at various periods. I really just made this one to put a few stories on alert, because I seriously lack the time to write, and I'm a shitty writer anyway. But I was looking over something I had written for myself a few weeks ago, and I was like, "Meh. I might as well upload it." So here we are. I welcome all reviews, though I'll admit that I was flamed once and I totally cried. I CRIED. FOR REAL. So don't flame me, people. **

**I have plans for this to be multi-chapter, _obviously_, but here's the thing: I've finished exactly ONE story in the whole time I've written fanfiction. I'm a serial project starter/abandoner. So don't get attached. I'm also a college student, so sometimes updates will be few and far between. Hopefully I'll churn a few chapters out after the 7th of December and before the 25th of January (AKA the small period of time during which I DON'T have nightmares about deadlines and finals and crazy professors).**

**So basically, this idea started back when Quinn said the line about her torturing Rachel if the roles were reversed, and it just seemed like such an interesting idea to explore, and looking through the site this week (seriously the first time I've come by here in a year -- the first time I'd EVER looked at Glee fic), I see it's a popular idea. Hopefully mine won't be a complete disgrace to the other AMAZING stories I've read on this subject.**

**The way it's working out in my brain, Rachel doesn't stop Puck during their little make-out session in _Mash-Up_, and that's when this whole mess begins. I've thought a lot about this, and Quinn can't be pregnant. I mean, I guess she could, but it's just not jiving with my story, which blows, because I love Pregnant!Quinn (and Quinn in general, really, that bitch), but it just doesn't work for me here. So I guess it's slightly AU.  
**

**So, anyway. Thanks for reading.**

It was an accident. Obviously. No one plans to get pregnant in their sophomore year of high school, and _no one_ plans to get pregnant by Noah Puckerman _ever_. How could this have happened? How could she have been so stupid? She couldn't stop replaying that it in her mind, the day she got pregnant. Puck was in her room, and he was being almost not an asshole, and then they were making out, and then they were doing _it_, and now there's two lines on that stupid stick and it's over, it's all over. If they don't run her out of school completely, the Cheerios will make the next seven months complete hell, and even once this awful pregnancy is over, she'll have a _kid_, and no one who has a kid at sixteen gets out of this stupid town. Her life is over and it hasn't even started.

She should have said no. Part of her wanted to, when it was happening. She knew it wasn't right. She didn't love him, he didn't love her. But the way he said her name...it hung in the air after every whisper, and it made her feel dizzy and giddy and alive, and she couldn't bring herself to stop, because what if it never happened again? She couldn't take the chance. And the irony of this is that if she had said no, there was a least a slight chance that she would eventually have relations again, when the time was right. And now she's going have a baby, and no one will ever want to be anywhere near her ever again. She's just a stupid girl, like everyone else in this school. She thought she was so much more.

Oh, God, she feels sick. They're right in the middle of _Don't Stop Believing_, and it's all she can do to keep from vomiting all over Finn every time she opens her mouth. She keeps forgetting words and messing up the choreography and everyone's staring at her, and she swears to God, if one more person asks if she's feeling alright, she'll stomp out of this room for the fifth time today and she _won't_ be dragged back.

She misses another line. The music stops, and Mr. Schue clears his throat, his face fixed in a confused frown.

"Let's take a break, guys," he says. "Can you hang back for a minute, Rachel?"

A few suspicious glances are tossed throughout the group as they make their way off the stage, and Rachel's cheeks flush bright red. Kurt attempts to hang by the doorway, but Mercedes pulls him away. She kind of hopes that Puck will show some sort of concern, but as per usual, he doesn't seem to even notice. He's more or less ignored her since that night. When they are alone, Mr. Schuester takes a seat and pats the chair next to him. Rachel sits reluctantly.

"Rachel," he begins slowly. "Is there something going on with you? I mean, I'm not a professional or anything, but it seems like there's something bothering you. It's usually the rest of the group that has trouble keeping up with you, not the other way around."

Rachel tries her best to keep her voice steady as she speaks. "I appreciate your concern, Mr. Schue, but I am...fine."

Her voice goes up an octave as she spits out the last word, and it's done. She's blown her cover. She was _not _fine. She flinches as Mr. Schuester places a hand on her should awkwardly.

"Would you like me to get Ms. Pillsbury? I'm sure she'd be happy to talk to you."

"No, please don't do that," she cries, a little too fast. "It's just teenager stuff. Girl stuff, you know. It's stupid. I'll be fine. I _am_ fine."

"Rachel, listen to me."

Mr. Schuester is not giving up. Of course. Why does he have to be so damn caring? Anyone else would have dropped this. As it is, he's dangerously close to bringing her to tears. That's not exactly difficult at this point -- all those hormones she's read about are finally rearing their ugly heads, and that coupled with her constant nausea and extreme exhaustion have made her a complete wreck. Last night, she watched _Deal or No Deal _and then cried for three hours.

"I'm concerned for you. I've noticed a change in you in the past few weeks, and worries me. You don't seem okay. I get that you don't want to talk about it, and that's okay. It's not my business. I just hope you know that if you _ever_ need to discuss something, I'm here for you. Everyone in Glee is here for you. Well. Almost everyone."

Rachel tries to smile at his attempt at humor, but a single tear has formed in the corner of her eye, and as soon as it spills down her cheek, the floodgates opens. She's suddenly sobbing so hard that she can't catch her breath, and Mr. Schuester is watching in horror, wondering what in the world he's done to this poor girl. He was only trying to be nice.

"Rachel, Rachel, stop," he says, putting his hands on her shoulders. "It's okay. It's going to be okay."

"No, it's _not_," she chokes. "You have no idea how not okay it's going to be."

Rachel opens her mouth to speak, but between sobbing and gasping for breath, she can't form anything close to real words. She's not even sure what she's trying to say. Should she tell him? At this point, would there be any use in denying it? Mr. Schue obviously knows that something is wrong, and it will only be a matter of time before she's all fat and stuff. In fact, she already feels like her clothes don't fit right, but that's probably just her mind playing tricks on her, and also maybe because she's been eating a shit load of carbs because it's the only thing she can keep down. It will either make her feel better or worse, and she doesn't think she could feel worse than she already does, so it's a win-win situation. Or something like that.

Mr. Schuester is quiet now, presumably because he's afraid that whatever he says is going to upset her more than she already is, because teenage girls are crazy. He gives her a supportive pat on the back and shifts awkwardly in his seat. "You're okay," he whispers.

"Mr. Schue," she says quietly, her voice trembling, "I...I'm pregnant."

* * *

Things are getting weird.

Rachel is exactly ten weeks pregnant today, and the baby is the size of a orange, according to a website she's been clandestinely visiting several times a day. She spies one of the small fruits in the refrigerator as she grabs the milk (so she can pour a bowl of cereal that she will only take two bites of before she feels sick), and really, really wants to hug it or something. She doesn't, because her dads are in the kitchen and they would find that really, really odd, but the desire is there. She glances at it longingly before shutting the door. Maternal instincts are creepy as hell.

"Rachel," her Daddy says, pulling a bagel from the toaster.

She spins around quickly. "Yes, Daddy?"

"I scheduled a doctor's appointment for you this afternoon. Don't make any plans after school."

Rachel's blood turns to ice.

"Why would you do that? I'm fine."

"You've been fighting a stomach bug for weeks, dear."

"It's just a virus. You can't do anything for a virus. It will just run it's course."

"Thank you, Dr. Berry, but I'd like a second opinion," her Daddy says. "I'll pick you up at 3:15."

Rachel has to think fast. She _cannot_ go to the doctor right now. Not with her dads there (and they will want to be there -- her Daddy, at least. He's so overprotective). She knows she actually _should_ be making plans to see an OB/GYN, but she's read that most don't see you until you're twelve weeks, so she doesn't feel guilty just yet.

"But I have Glee practice this afternoon!" she blurts. A lie. She's doing a lot of lying lately. She hasn't really ever lied to her dads before. Not about anything major, anyway (but then, she's never really had anything major to lie about). She doesn't like it. She wishes she could bury herself in their embrace and tell them all about what's been going on and ask them what she should do, and she asks herself briefly why she _can't_, and then she pictures the disappointment and the sadness and the anger, and she realizes _exactly_ why she can't. It will ruin them. They're obviously not the most traditional family, but they have aspirations for Rachel. There is so much they want her to accomplish, and they have sacrificed so much to give her the opportunities she needs. So they can't know about this. For now.

"I thought you only had late rehearsals on Thursday?" Her Dad looks up from his newspaper.

"Well, we really need to practice for Sectionals. Mr. Schuester wants us there on today, and I _have_ to be there. They can't manage without me."

"Well, okay," her Daddy says. "When should I pick you up?"

Oh, crap. Rachel hadn't thought of that. She'll have to find something to do around the school for awhile. Whatever. She'll sit in an empty classroom for hours if it means she has a few more days to keep her secret, well, a secret.

"Um, you know, don't worry about it. It could go really late. I'll get a ride home with Kurt or something. He's picking me up, he might as well drop me off, too. He lives just a few blocks away."

"Are you sure? We could pick you up and then we could go to dinner. Red Lobster, maybe?"

Rachel can't even begin to mask her disgust. Seafood makes her sick. Most food does that, really, but food of the sea persuasion is high on the list of _Things That Taste Like Hobo Vomit_.

"It's your favorite!"

"I'm, uh, thinking of becoming a vegetarian. Trying to be more ecologically friendly, you know, decreasing my carbon footprint. Think green!" She pumps her fist in the air and gives a half-hearted _woo-hoo!_, which on second thought, she realizes might be too enthusiastic.

Her parents exchange a glance. They're on to her. Damn it, she's awful that this. Of all the people to get knocked up at sixteen, couldn't the universe have picked someone more well-versed in the art of deceiving people? One would think her extensive experience in the arts would make her a better actress. Just as her father opens his mouth to speak, a horn beeps outside. Thank. God.

"Oh, that's my ride! Bye, Dad! Bye, Daddy!" She gives them each a quick peck on the cheek. "Love you! Don't wait up!"

She bounds out of the house quickly, before any more questions can be asked. That was a close one.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Rachel is climbing out of Kurt's SUV. She surveys the parking lot and spies Cheerios at 10 o'clock, so she quickly changes her route. She's trying even harder than normal to avoid those girls – she knows that they won't leave her alone once her news breaks out. She hopes to keep it under wraps for at least another month, but who knows what will happen? One whiff of a scandal and the whole school will be buzzing with rumors within the hour.

She enters the crowded hallways of McKinley High and makes a beeline for her locker. On the way, she passes Mr. Schuester, who casually asks how she's doing.

"Quite well, Mr. Schue," she says, putting on her best smile. "Thank you for asking."

This is a lie, and she's pretty sure he knows it from the way he smiles empathetically, but obviously she can't just say that the reason she's practically running to her locker is because she has a package of Saltines in there and it's all she can keep down.

If you're going to confide your deepest, darkest secret in someone, Mr. Schuester is not a bad choice. She was worried at first, because he's a boy, and he's a teacher, and both of those are strikes against him in the stealthiness department. But he's been alright. She can tell he's trying really hard to look out for her without drawing attention toward her, and Rachel thinks that's sweet, even though she's generally opposed to the idea of being looked out for -- she's a very capable person, you know. Under her poised, ladylike exterior lies the strength and determination of a warrior, or ninja, or something equally badass. She's like Catwoman. Michelle Pfeiffer's Catwoman. Okay, that's stupid. But she can count on one hand the hours of consecutive sleep she's gotten in the past month, so cut her some slack.

But back to Mr. Schue. He's a good guy, and he's not being totally weird about it. He's not treating her like an awful person or an invalid, though she does notice that he's calling for more breaks during rehearsals (not that she's complaining – even basic choreography is taxing when you're exhausted, starving, and nauseous all that the same time). It's not like they're best friends or anything – come on, he's a teacher, and he's like 32 or something – but sometimes she just needs to talk about it, and he listens without being judgmental. He thinks she needs to tell her parents and the baby's father (she hasn't quite worked up the courage to tell him who it is), but he's not really bugging Rachel about it. She appreciates that. He's a good guy.

Certainly a better guy than Noah freaking Puckerman, whose voice is currently floating through the corridor. He and his ilk are carrying on in their typical teenage boy manner, no surprise there. She can't believe she ever even _thought_ about dating someone so juvenile. Not that it was ever really an option – she knew he was just using her for carnal pleasures. But she's a girl and she'd be lying if she said she didn't get slightly carried away in fantasies about their relationship. She thought about how they'd become McKinley's darling couple, and how they'd move to New York together, where Rachel would be a Broadway sensation and Puck would…well, she didn't really care what Puck did, as long as it was fabulous, and whenever they'd come home to visit family, everyone who was ever awful to her would feel like complete shit, because Rachel was rich and famous and had a totally hot boyfriend, and they were all still Lima losers.

If that wasn't out of reach before, it definitely is now.

She yanks her locker open and starts unloading the contents of her ridiculously heavy backpack, when suddenly she can _smell_ him. The strange combination of chewing tobacco, old leather, and aftershave is nearly overpowering, and it brings her right back to the night she'd rather forget, and then she hears him whispering her name, and his warm breath tickles her neck, and she wonders if this is some sort of pregnancy-induced mental break, because it seems so real. And then his hand his on the small of her back and she realizes that it _is_ real, and she's flabbergasted. What is happening here? They have barely spoken in months, exchanging only barbed insults and death glares from across the room, and she was pretty sure he had moved onto Santana – and the rest of the Cheerios, but mostly Santana.

She spins around quickly and is about to give him a piece of her mind, because really, it's been nearly three months and he's been an asshole and how dare he touch her, because she _did not_ give him permission to touch her, and she could press charges if she felt so inclined? And then before she gets a word out, her face is so cold that it burns, and a wet, sticky substance is trailing down her shirt. She gasps and sputters, spitting orange slush from her mouth. Orange, really? All she can think of is her little orange-shaped bastard baby and the fact that it's worthless father just Slushied her, and she wants to scream and she probably will in a few minutes, but first, an all too familiar feeling is gnawing at her stomach. She tries to suppress it, she really does, but there's no use. The entire contents of her stomach rise up her throat and, in a moment that cements her belief in karma, land directly on a certain mohawk-sporting, leather jacket-clad teenage misfit.

Which would be awesome if it wasn't so gross.

Everything is still. No one moves, vomit-covered Puck included. Quinn eventually breaks the silence by glaring hatefully at Rachel while loudly proclaiming that she has never been more disgusted in her _entire life_, and then the hallway comes alive again. The jocks rally around Puck as he makes his way to the locker rooms, pausing to gag every few seconds, and Mercedes and Tina grab Rachel's arm and lead her through the jeering crowd, toward the female restroom.

_On the bright side_, Rachel thinks to herself, _this day can probably only get better._

_

* * *

_

They found her a shirt to wear – some piece of a costume from the choir room's closet – and her face has almost regained full feeling. Everyone keeps telling her that the whole incident is nearly forgotten already, but people keep dramatically shielding themselves whenever they pass by, and from the way people are laughing, she thinks that joke probably has a lot of life left in it.

Normally, she would simply rise above it. Celebrities _must_ be capable of overlooking ridicule if they want to survive the business. This is good practice. Unfortunately, nothing about this is normal, and she can't rise above shit right now.

All she can do is cry. And cry and cry and cry.

She cried throughout Spanish class, and English class, and math class, and she cried while eating lunch, and she cried while throwing up lunch, and now she's crying in the choir room while the rest of the group tries to rehearse, which isn't going well because every time they try to sing above than her sobs, she just cries louder, which she is honestly not doing on purpose. Honestly.

When the song ends, Kurt turns to her and says, "I'm not trying to minimize your feelings, really, but it was _just_ a Slushie."

_It was not just a Slushie,_ she wants to scream. _It's so much more than a fucking Slushie._

But she tries not to curse in polite company, so instead she just cries harder.

"You made her cry," she hears Finn say to Puck, who has been sitting in the corner with his arms crossed the whole time, like a scolded child. "She's a girl. That's not cool."

"Oh, come on. It's _Berry_. And besides, how many times have I slushied her before? How was I supposed to know that she would freak?"

"I'm just sayin'. It's too far, bro."

"Well, what do you want me to do?"

"Say you're sorry or whatever."

"That wouldn't help."

"Of course it would."

Puck turns to Rachel. "I'm sorry for Slushing you today, Berry. Now chill out, or I'll do it again."

Rachel stops crying for a moment and stares at him with wide eyes. Then her face crumples and she's at it again. "You're a _monster_," she wails.

Puck rolls his eyes. _Girls_.

* * *

Rachel looks briefly at her cell phone. It's 4:37 and she's bored. She did homework for awhile, and she played the piano in the choir room for awhile, and now she's sitting on the steps in front of the school, waiting for a decent time to call her parents to come pick her up. No one wanted to wait around with her, so she's kind of stuck here. She wants to hold out until at least 5, when the doctor's office closes, because otherwise she's pretty sure her daddy would drag her there and somehow convince the doctor to see her immediately. He's like that.

The sun goes behind a cloud, and the warm cement turns cold. She checks her phone again. 4:38. She watches as the few remaining cars pull out of the parking lot. From behind her, someone coughs. She looks over her shoulder, and her whole body grows tense when she sees his stupid face.

He waves his empty hands in the air. "I'm unarmed."

Rachel purses her lips. She has nothing to say.

Okay, actually, she does.

"You're a really awful person. Did you know that? Because you really are. You're just…bad. You're like the bad boy with a heart of gold except you _don't_ have a heart of gold. You have no redeeming qualities whatsoever. You're arrogant and shallow and your hair is _ridiculous_ and you can't even sing, and I don't know what anyone sees in you, not even those bobble head cheerleaders, because you are _awful_."

The part about his singing is a lie, because his voice actually makes her swoon a little inside, and his hair…well, it works for him. But otherwise, it's all true. For the most part. So, okay, he has _some_ redeeming qualities. But not very many. Definitely not enough for her to forgive him for the Slushie thing. Or the getting her pregnant thing.

"What are you doing out here?" he asks, and Rachel wonders if he heard a single word she said, or if he's just ignoring her because he knows she hates being ignored.

"Waiting for my parents."

"Why?"

"Because I live five miles away."

"Why don't you just drive yourself?"

"Because I don't know how."

Puck looks confused, and slightly panicked. "You're not, like, some 12-year-old genius kid, right?"

"I'm sixteen and a half, _thankyouverymuch_. My dads just won't teach me. It makes them nervous."

Puck laughs, and then continues down the stairs. "That blows." He gets halfway to his car before turning around.

"I think the gentlemanly thing to do here is offer you a ride."

_Which is why you're not going to?_

He stares at her expectantly. She stares back.

"Berry, are you coming, or what?"

"I can't accept or a reject a proposition until it is actually proposed to me, _Noah_."

Puck's jaw tightens. "Would you like a ride, _Rachel_?" God, this chick is crazy.

Rachel weighs her options. If she gets in a car with Puck, she'll be in a car with _Puck_. Alone. There would be no witnesses if he murdered her. But then again, there would be no witnesses if she murdered him, and she feels like that might be a possibility, so that's a plus. It would also lend a bit more credibility to her story about Glee practice – her dads might wonder why no one would give her a ride home if they all left the school at the same time.

"Berry." Puck taps his foot impatiently. "Yes or no?"

Oh, what the hell?

"Yes."

"This isn't the way."

"I know where I'm going."

"If you knew where you were going, you would have turned left on Elizabeth Street, like I _told you to_."

"I have to stop at the gas station."

Rachel peers to her left and eyes the fuel gauge. "You have plenty of gas."

"I didn't say I needed gas, did I?" Puck snaps, annoyed.

"Then what are you getting that can't wait until after you drop me off?"

"Dip. And taquitos."

Rachel narrows her eyes. "Are you serious?"

"They put the last fresh batch out at 5, and those little fuckers go _fast_."

Rachel suddenly feels very, very hopeless. The father of her baby is racing through town to get gas station taquitos before they run out. Could someone just kill her? Please?

Fifteen minutes and one ridiculously trashy detour later, they slow to a stop in front of Rachel's house. She hesitates for a moment, then grabs her bag and opens the door.

"Thanks for the ride," she says, "And the taquito, I guess." She gestures to the greasy, fried shell, which she plans to throw away as soon as she gets inside, because no way is she going to eat it, but he offered it and she didn't want to seem rude, so she took it anyway. She would rather have him buying her gross convenience store food than throwing gross convenience store Slushies in her face.

He gives a quick nod of acknowledgement, and the truck roars back to life. As she walks up the driveway, she is startled by the sound of a car horn. She turns around to see that Puck's truck hasn't moved.

"Sorry for slushing you today," He mumbles. "I can't make any promises – I mean, I've got a reputation to uphold here, you know. But I'll try not to get you in the face next time."

Rachel smiles. "Thanks, Puck."

**A/N: Well? I know, it wasn't great. In fact, I know it was really just a giant clusterfudge of crapfic. But if you somehow enjoyed it, or didn't _hate _it, or even if you did hate, please feel free to review. The one thing I really, really miss about publishing fanfiction is the reviews. Because they were awesome.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: You were getting nervous there, weren't you? Thought I'd just up and leave you with one chapter? Sorry about that – it's finals week, so after I submitted that first chapter, I quickly had to put away all recreational writing and focus solely on studying for three exams. Good news is that now I am DONE with classes FOREVER. Or actually, something like six weeks. But it feels like forever right now. I'm trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I can be writing this and not feel even slightly guilty, because I HAVE NO HOMEWORK.**

**So anyway, you lot? Are amazing. And crazy (in the best way). Thank you so much for your encouraging reviews! I don't think I've ever gotten 30+ reviews for ONE chapter before, ever, period. And thanks to all of you who added this story as a favorite or put it on alert. You're adorable. I love you. It brightened up my whole day. I really, truly did not expect such a warm reception.**

**While writing this chapter, I ran into the problem that I **_**always**_** run into after I submit something for others to see – I **_**freak**_** out about making the subsequent chapters just as good, and I start to worry a ton about what you all want, and I think it makes my writing a little stilted. So if you notice that (and I'm sure you're all going to look for it now that I've said something, right?), please just stay with me – I usually get over it within a few chapters. **

**Also, the timeline is a little screwy, but hopefully it won't be too big of a deal. We just have to pretend that Puck and Rachel did it in early September, when it reality it was probably quite a bit later in the school year.**

Telling Puck could wait. She knew that he needed to know, and she _would_ tell him – eventually. It just seemed to her, when she thought about it (and she thought about it _a lot_), it made the most sense to first tell the people that she knew would _always_ love her and do their best to support her, before dealing with the person who, let's face it, didn't have the best track record with personal responsibility.

So her parents would come first.

Rachel had given herself a week. She always does her best work when there are high expectations to be met, so she made herself promise that her parents would know about her Made-for-TV drama in seven days or less. She even went ahead a booked an appointment with an OB for the following weekend -- she was certain that by then, everything would be out in the open. Because when Rachel Barbara Berry decides to accomplish something, it is accomplished.

When she had six days left, Rachel wrote them a letter. She thought about all those old movies she'd seen, and how everyone was always sending telegraphs to deliver bad news, and it seemed like a reasonable way of getting things done, and it would certainly be easier than having to actually say the words, because she could hardly whisper them to herself without feeling out of breath. She carried the letter in her pocket for the greater part of a day, and then in a moment of weakness, tore it to shreds. And flushed the remnants down a toilet.

With three days to go, she made dinner. The key to any man's heart, including her two gay dads, is food, and nothing seems as bad when you've recently gorged yourself, thus making desert the perfect time to announce her newly procured status of Teenage Failure. Unfortunately, her parents had to go _on _and _on _about how proud they were of her, and what a good person she was, and how much they loved her. So when desert rolled around, she pretended that she didn't make anything, and then snuck an entire pan of brownies into her bedroom, where she ate and cried until the wee hours of the morning, which really only made things seem worse.

The night before her week was up, Rachel found herself sitting on their bed, sobbing uncontrollably. Her dad was on one side, trying to get the story out of her and figure out why she was so upset, and her daddy was on the other, simply comforting her and telling her that it would be okay, even though he wasn't exactly sure what _it_ was. She tried several times to explain her situation, but she found herself unable to do anything but alternate between sobs and involuntary gasps for breath. They eventually put on _West Side Story_, and she fell asleep to them singing along to _Gee, Officer Krupke_.

And then the week was gone, and now she's sitting in Mr. Schuester car, and he's driving her to the appointment she had planned to attend with her parents. She didn't really want to ask him to take her, but her options are limited -- she knows that this pregnancy will shatter any small bit of social standing she had garnered, and she really doesn't want to rub salt in the wound by resorting to public transportation. It would be different if she were in New York City, of course, where there are lovely yellow taxis and subways, but in Lima, there's a single bus that comes through town around noon, and she's heard that sometimes people get stabbed.

The ride has been silent, for the most part. Mr. Schue keeps trying to bring up random topics of conversation, but they fizzle out quickly because they're both too busy thinking about the one thing they're not going to talk about. Rachel turns to him and thanks him again, for the millionth time, because she feels like she should. He smiles and tells her it's fine, for the millionth time, then it's silent again.

She spies their exit up ahead, and suddenly her stomach is in her throat, and if Mr. Schuester hadn't gotten up at seven on a Saturday morning to drive her to a clinic three towns over (under the guise of a Glee-related fieldtrip), she would be turning around right now and spending the rest of her day in her bedroom, listening to sad music and eating refined sugar.

She closes her eyes, just for a second, and by the time she opens them again, they're in the parking lot.

* * *

The waiting room is brimming with activity, and everywhere she looks, Rachel is visually assaulted by glimpses of her future. Across the room, a heavily pregnant woman shifts uncomfortably in her seat, and she really hopes that women is having triplets, because she is _enormous_, and just imagining herself at that size makes Rachel's brain explode. Next to her, a small baby lets out a cry that kind of sounds like a bleating goat, and it's driving her crazy, but mostly because it's actually making her heart flutter and she doesn't really know why, and then the baby's cries are drowned out by a shrieking toddler, and then an automatic air freshener goes off and fills the room with the most vile cinnamon scent she's ever smelled, and suddenly she feels hot and dizzy and claustrophobic.

Just as she begins to formulate an escape plan, they call her name.

* * *

Photos of brand new babies adorn the light blue walls of the small office, and while waiting for the doctor to arrive, Rachel studies every single one. They all look pretty similar, she thinks, though some have hair and some don't, and one in particular has the sweetest little lips. She starts to wonder whether hers will come out with hair, or if it will have her nose, or if you can even really tell what shape of nose a baby has when it's first born. She's trying to remember what color Puck's eyes are when a familiar voice snaps her out of her reverie.

She glances toward the open door that leads into the hallway, and for a brief second, she _swears_ she's just seen…no, that's crazy. She _knows_ it's crazy, and she reprimands herself harshly for being so hysterical. She pushes the paranoia out of her mind and returns her focus to the babies. She thinks Puck's eyes might be green.

* * *

The appointment went well, Rachel thinks. The doctor was nice enough and seemed to only note her age in passing (she had mentioned that her late May due date would work out well for her, as long as the baby didn't come before finals), which Rachel appreciated greatly.

When she checked for a heartbeat, Rachel wished she hadn't had Mr. Schuester stay in the waiting room, because the fuzzy _woosh, woosh, woosh _that filled the room was the most amazing thing she had ever heard, and she felt like she needed someone else to witness it, because she almost didn't believe it was real.

Walking down the hallway toward the waiting area with a stack of reading material the size of her math textbook and a prescription for prenatal vitamins, Rachel's mind drifts back to her minor hallucination before the appointment began, mainly because it's either happening again, or she wasn't hallucinating to begin with. She hangs her head low and picks up speed, but it's too late. When she glances up, they lock eyes, and a small smile spreads across Quinn Fabray's face.

* * *

It's 2 in the afternoon, and so far, no one has whispered or laughed or stared, which means that Quinn probably hasn't told anyone yet, and she wonders why. She came to school expecting the news to have already spread through text messaging circles, but things have been quiet. It's really quite suspicious. The cheerleader has no reason to keep her secret, and plenty of reasons to share it – the main one being that she can't stand her, and would love nothing more than to watch her high school career crumble.

She thinks about it for a few more minutes, then chooses not to question it, and instead tries to appreciate her fleeting moments of relative anonymity. For now, she's just Rachel Berry, that singing freak with more ugly sweaters than Bill fucking Cosby.

She makes her way to the bathroom behind the auditorium, which is almost always empty. When she is certain the coast is clear, she begins her mid-afternoon ritual, which starts with her unceremoniously puking her guts out. The morning sickness is becoming slightly easier to deal with, she's noticed, and she's not really sure if it's because she's almost out of her first trimester or if she's somehow managed to overcome it by sheer willpower (the former is more likely, but the latter makes her feel good about herself, which she realizes is totally sad). At any rate, she's learned what tends to set off her gag reflex (Dairy products are evil, body sprays of any kind should be classified as toxic waste, and she's finally glad that her school adheres to a strict No Gum policy, or else she'd be blowing chunks all day long), and she's only missed the toilet once this whole week, and _that_ is success.

When her stomach has quelled, she grabs her makeup bag. She doesn't usually wear much, but she's been looking like death warmed over lately, and it's important to maintain a positive outward appearance, even (or perhaps especially) in times of stress and uncertainty.

She opens the stall door and is surprised (or rather, horrified) to find herself staring directly at the tall blonde who has haunted her dreams since Saturday. She's leaning against a sink, her arms crossed and her face fixed in a smirk. They have _got_ to stop meeting like this.

Rachel takes a deep breath, then resumes her stride. She grabs the concealer from her bag and begins applying it around her eyes, and does her best to keep her gaze fixed on the mirror, and not the girl standing to her right.

Quinn clears her throat and Rachel cringes. This is it. She was hoping to keep up the stony silence for a bit longer, but now her eyes are watery (if there's one thing she hates about being pregnant, it's the _never-ending_ crying) and her mind is swimming in things she feels like she needs to say, and she can't stop herself.

"Listen, Quinn, I know you saw me on Saturday and you're not a stupid person, so I'm sure you've got this all figured out by now, and I'm sure you're really proud of yourself, and I'm not sure why you haven't just announced it through the loudspeakers yet, but I know it's coming eventually, even though you and I both know that if the roles were reversed, I would _never_ do this to you. I know you don't like me very much, but you're not evil, Quinn. Shallow and vapid, yes, but you've got to be a good enough person to realize when you're about to ruin someone, and if you tell anyone, you're going to ruin _me_. So please, just…don't."

She stares at her for a moment, trying to read Quinn's emotionless expression, then turns away and wipes her eyes. When she regains her composure, she turns back to the cheerleader.

"And also, one _does_ have to wonder what _you_ were doing at an OB/GYN's office on Saturday," she adds sharply. "So perhaps you shouldn't fire at someone unless you know they don't have the ammunition to shoot back."

She feels kind of awesome for a second there, until Quinn lets out a hollow laugh.

"_Please_. First, the Cheerios are due for annual physicals, and Coach Sylvester makes us see her creepy doctor because he's the only one she could find who would remove all her reproductive organs for no reason, and apparently that makes him the best. But good try. Second, the roles? Will_ never_ be reversed, and I think we both know that. Some of us have standards. Third, none of this is even why I'm here. Glee started ten minutes ago and Mr. Schue wanted someone to find you."

"Oh."

"_Yeah_. So, when you're done trying to hide those burst blood vessels around your eyes, which, by the way, will never happen if you keep using the wrong shade of concealer, you need to go to the choir room, because everyone is waiting on you, and _some of us_ have better things to do then sing show tunes all day."

Quinn starts toward the door, then stops.

"I'm not going to tell anyone."

Rachel nearly jumps out of her skin. "W-why? I mean, thank you, I guess, but…"

"I know you haven't told Puck yet, and he shouldn't have find out from anyone but you."

"What does Puck have to do with any of this?" Rachel asks hotly.

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Don't play dumb – it's unbecoming."

Rachel opens her mouth to speak, but Quinn is already answering her question. "Puck tells Finn everything because they're best friends, and Finn tells me everything because I force him to. I know you slept with him. And unless there's a coming apocalypse that I am unaware of, I _highly_ doubt you've been with anyone else."

Rachel turns away to hide her burning cheeks.

"That's what I thought," Quinn says softly. "Tell him before someone else does."

* * *

Rachel tried to tell him after Glee, but lost her nerve (it was becoming a recurring theme in her life, it would appear) when he replied to her beckoning with a dismissive "_What_, Berry?"

It was better this way, she thought, as she watches him on football field. The school grounds were practically empty at this point, so there was already an exponentially better chance of him actually acknowledging her presence – when no one was around, he was actually a decent person. Well, a halfway decent person, anyway.

When the team gathers for their final group hug, or whatever it is they do in that big circle, Rachel gathers her things and begins down the bleachers. When she reaches the field, he's already walking toward the locker rooms.

"Puck!"

He doesn't react, not even slightly, and she _knows_ it's not possible that he didn't hear her, because when Rachel wants to be heard, she is.

"Puck, wait!"

He tosses a quick glance over his shoulder, but doesn't stop.

She lets out an angry huff.

"_Noah Puckerman_," she screeches. "I am _speaking_ to _you_!"

He stops now, and when his friends try to hang back as well, he waves them away. Rachel marches toward him with determination.

"God, Berry, I think you shattered a few windows."

"I don't take well to being ignored," she snaps.

"I've noticed. Now, what exactly do you _want_ from me? Make it quick -- the guys and I are going to go skinny-dipping in that new koi pond downtown."

"Well, I wouldn't want to keep you from your after-school shenanigans, but we really need to talk."

For a thick-skulled football player, Puck picks up on Rachel's tone rather quickly. The color drains from his face, and his grip on his helmet loosens. Rachel wonders, rather bitterly, how many times he's had the conversation they're about to have. Never mind. She doesn't want to know.

"I didn't want to say anything until I knew for sure," she mumbles. It's not really true – she didn't want to say anything at all, period, ever, but Quinn forced her hand, and even if she hadn't, she knew it would only be a matter of time before it came out some other way. "but I saw a doctor a few days ago, and…"

Her voice trails off, and she can't bring herself to finish the sentence, but she's not really sure if she even needs to. Puck lets out a shaky breath, and she thinks he might have just laughed, but surely only because the thought of this happening is so completely insane.

"Puck."

She inhales sharply.

"I'm pregnant."

**A/N: Tonight is the first night of Hanukkuh. I'm not actually Jewish, but if you want to get me something anyway, I'd love a review. But then, I don't think I really even need to ask, 'cause you're all awesome.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Okay, kids, over a thousand hits on Saturday? Really? You're talking crazy, and I freakin' love it. I **_**love**_** it. You guys are terrific. Thanks to all who have read, reviewed, and favorited so far. You make me happy. **

**I really, really don't love this chapter, and I'm not just saying that to garner positive reviews. I had a hard time writing it and the end result is really just **_**meh**_** to me. Oh well.**

Puck is not a stupid guy. People think he is, because he's so handsome and masculine and athletic and _awesome_, and there's just _no way_ that he could have a brain to go along with all his other winning features, but the fact is, he's pretty smart, too.

At least, he's smart enough to know when a girl is about to drop a fucking a-bomb on him and ruin his whole life. It's not hard to spot the set up once it happens a few times (and it's happened to Puck, well, more than a few times). They always track him down at school and are, like, _we need to talk_. Like they've forgotten how to send a text message or something? And then they're all, _I think I'm pregnant, you're the father, wah, wah, wah._ So then he goes, _did you take a test_? And eight out of eight times (which, if his mother asks, is a totally random figure and _not_ the amount of times this has happened to Puck), they say _No_. And then they take one and it's negative and they all move on with their lives, and Puck makes a mental note to be more careful, and then he never is.

So, when Rachel Berry tried to corner him on the football field, he ignored her. He had a date with a case of cheap beer and some _giant ass_ fish, and her crazy girl drama could be dealt with at any time. And then she started _screaming at him_, and he was pretty sure a pack of wild dogs was going to start running toward her at any second, that's how fucking high-pitched her voice was, and he couldn't stand it.

So he let her do her thing, and he was all prepared to go through the motions, but she had this look in her eyes that he hadn't seen, and he suddenly got the feeling that she wasn't being dramatic or stupid, and then he knew that she _knew_, and then she started talking about doctor's appointments and heartbeats and he wanted to throw up.

And now she's standing here in front of him and her mouth is moving a mile a minute and he can't even hear what she's saying because his pulse is pounding in his ears, and he can't even see straight, and he feels like he needs to sit down, so he does. The grass is cold and damp, but it doesn't really matter because all he can feel is his heart about to fly out of his chest.

And now she's _yelling_ again and he wonders if his ears are actually bleeding.

"Do you ever stop talking?" he snaps. "Christ, Berry, I'm trying to think."

It comes out harsher than he thought it would, and he almost cares, but now she's silent and that's all he really needs at this moment.

_Rachel Berry_ is pregnant. How could this even happen? They did it _once_ (unless boob touching counts for something) and that was forever ago. When _was_ that? He can't even remember. Four or five months ago? That can't be right. None of this can possibly be right.

Rachel sits down next to him. She pulls her knees to her chest and rests her chin on her palm. He shouldn't be surprised that her silence lasted a total of five seconds, but he's still a little startled when she looks at him and asks what he's thinking.

"It's essential that keep our communication open and honest," she adds, and he figures she doesn't really mean that, because if he were being open and honest he'd tell her that right now he was wishing that she didn't exist.

She keeps staring at him, and he knows that she's not going to let up, because she just doesn't do that.

"How far along are you?" he asks. He's not really sure why it matters, but it seems like that's what everyone always asks when they find out someone is having a kid.

"Twelve weeks. And five days," Rachel sputters. She seems a little surprised at the question, and then a little embarrassed for answering with such specificity. "Or somewhere around there."

He nods, but it really means nothing to him – she could have said she was ninety-seven weeks, thirty-two days and four hours along and he would still just nod. He doesn't really know much about this whole baby-cooking business, except that it makes chicks fat and _crazy_. He tries to picture Rachel more fucking nuts than she already is, and suddenly he's kind of scared for his life.

"Do you know what it is, or whatever?"

Rachel raises an eyebrow and reiterates that she's _only twelve weeks_. So that's a no, he figures? She could have just said that (unless it's physically impossible for her to _not_ act like an obnoxious know-it-all – he's wondered sometimes).

"I'm going to keep it," she blurts suddenly.

He kind of figured she was going to get it taken care of, or give it up, or something. She's got all of crazy plans and ideas (he knows this because she _never shuts up about them_) and he doesn't see a kid fitting in there. Plus, she's one of those crazy feminist chicks and he remembers one time he slushied her, she had just printed off a hundred flyers for some counter-protest at Planned Parenthood or some shit like that. He's surprised that she's choosing to go this way, and he's also surprised that he's kind of relieved.

"You don't have to do anything, you know," she adds. "If you don't want to."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm willing to offer you an opt out. You don't have to be a part of this." She gestures toward her mid-section. "I'll understand. _I_ don't want to be a part of this."

He frowns. Does she really think so little of him? He's not up for Human of the Year or anything (okay, he can be a total asshole sometimes), but he's not a juvenile delinquent, either (okay, he is. But he's not a _deadbeat_).

"Listen," He turns to her. "I'll do what has to be done, okay?"

Rachel eyes him suspiciously. Leave it to Berry to make this more difficult than it needs to be.

"I have no expectations regarding our future together," she says coolly. "Obviously, basic civility would be ideal, but only for the benefit of our future offspring."

"I think I can manage that."

"You would have to stop slushing me," she adds, as if she's _trying_ to change his mind. "Not just in the face, but _altogether_."

Puck smirks. "You drive a hard bargain, Berry."

He stands up now, reasonably certain that he's no longer about to have a heart attack, and extends a hand to Rachel. She grabs it after a moment's hesitation, and then she's up and they're _inches_ apart, and he wonders what would happen if he leaned just a bit closer, because she's actually pretty cute when she's not making any noise, and then a ruckus over by the locker rooms sends them flying in opposite directions.

"Puck!" Karofsky yells. "Are you coming?"

"Yeah," he replies. "Yeah, I'll be there in a second."

He glances at Rachel, then at the guys, then back at Rachel.

"I'll…call you or something," he offers before taking off toward the school.

* * *

Much to Rachel's surprise, he fulfills this promise a mere twenty minutes after they had parted ways on the football field. She's preparing for a new Myspace video when he calls to see if he can pick her up in a few minutes, and she's too shocked to say anything but yes.

She's barely had a chance to locate her shoes when a small rock hits her window. She rushes across the room and pulls the blinds open just in time to see Puck launch another pebble toward the glass.

She pushes the window up with one hand and throws the other in the air.

"_What_ are you _doing_?!"

"Picking you up," Puck replies, like this is totally normal. _For him_, she thinks_, it probably is_.

"Funny, it seems to me that you're trying to shatter my bedroom window," she huffs. "Meet me on the front porch."

Puck's eyes widen. "I'd rather not."

"Would you prefer I repel down with a rope fashioned out of my bed sheets?"

"It's just…aren't your parents home?"

"Yes?"

"I just figured I'm probably not their favorite person right now, what with my impregnating you with my bastard sperm and all. I mean, I know they're gay, but they could probably take me if they tried."

"Will you _shut up_?" she hisses through gritted teeth, her eyes practically bulging out of her skull. "They don't _know_ yet."

"Oh."

"Meet me on the front porch," she repeats. "And stop talking."

* * *

"Did you ever think you'd have kids?"

The question comes after several minutes of sitting silently in Puck's truck, parked in front of Rachel's house. They had driven around Lima for hours, discussing pregnancy and babies and the future and all sorts of other things that neither ever imagined discussing with each other. Sometimes they talked Glee and _American Idol_, too, when the conversation got too heavy.

He had pulled into the driveway half an hour earlier, but Rachel couldn't bring herself to get out of the car, and Puck couldn't bring himself to make her.

She glances out the window before answering.

"Not really. I mean, maybe someday, after I was inducted into the Actors Hall of Fame, but…not really. Did you?"

"No reason not to. It's just what people do, you know?"

"Not everyone."

"Everyone in Lima."

"We won't be in Lima forever."

_Yes, they will_. Rachel was going places, and now she's not. Puck figured he'd probably stick around, and now that's been decided for sure. He knows this and she knows this, and suddenly the air is thick with tension.

Neither of them can think of anything not depressing to say at this point, so Rachel mutters a quick "_I should go_" and Puck replies with a quiet "_Yeah, it's late_" and then she's out of the car and up her driveway in seconds.

* * *

Rachel can tell that this is going to be a great day. She woke up feeling well-rested for the first time in months, she barely gagged when she brushed her teeth, and somehow her hair looked amazing before she even brushed it. On top of all this, she is _happy_. Inexplicably happy. Telling Puck had lifted a huge weight off her shoulders, and she feels like she can almost breathe again. This is going to be a great day.

Or maybe it's not.

She notices a few whispers in the parking lot, but brushes them aside. As she walks the corridors of the school, however, the stares and hushed laughs become incredibly obvious. The sinking feeling in her stomach is growing more and more pronounced, until it's impossible to ignore.

When she spots Puck, she grabs his arm and quickly yanks him into an empty classroom.

"We have a problem," she announces. "Who did you tell?"

"Who did _I _tell?" he repeats, his mouth gaping. "No one. Who did _you_ tell?"

"_No one_." Rachel scoffs at the accusation. "Except Mr. Schuester, but he's a teacher, so that doesn't count. And Quinn knows, but I didn't tell her."

"Well, somehow everyone knows. _Everyone_."

Rachel is pacing the length of the room at record speeds. "Quinn told me she wasn't going to tell anyone. She wouldn't, would she?"

"How am I supposed to know?"

"You guys are friends, or friends by association, or something. You'd know better than me."

"Well, I don't," he snaps. "What the hell are we supposed to do?"

"We need to prepare a statement."

Puck raises an eyebrow. "…what?"

"A statement. We need to draft a formal response, which we can then refer to when we're questioned. It's the easiest way to avoid the trap of Gotcha Journalism. Find some note cards – it would be best to carry it on our persons at all times."

"Are you serious?"

Her eyes widen. "I most _certainly_ am."

"Shit, Berry," he exhales, running a hand through his hair. "you are the weirdest person I know."

* * *

"Alright, guys," Mr. Schuester begins, passing around a stack of sheet music. "I've been working on some songs that I'd like us to try. Finn, let's have…"

He trails off when he notices Rachel's hand perched high in the air.

"We'll get to your part in a minute, Rachel. Like I was saying, Finn…"

"Fellow Glee clubbers," Rachel says, speaking over Mr. Schue. "by now, I'm sure you've heard the rumors that are circling around the school right now, including the particularly libelous accusation that my gay dads are using me as a surrogate for my own sibling. If I may, I would like to take a few moments to clear the air."

She stares at Mr. Schuester, who offers a permissive, though hesitant, nod. With this, she stands, smoothes her plaid skirt, and marches to the front of the room.

"While many of the things you've been told are deeply false, it is true that I am…_expecting_." She pauses to take in the reactions of her classmates. Most of the group has erupted in a flurry of scandalized whispers, while Brittany looks a little lost and Santana appears completely disgusted. Finn is staring at Puck, who is staring at the ceiling, obviously annoyed (she had ran the idea of a press conference by him during lunch hour, and he told her in no uncertain terms that he'd have no part in it). She meets Quinn's gaze and sees a brief flicker of…concern, maybe? It is quickly masked by a look of absolute indifference.

She continues, "I know that circumstances such as these tend to bring about many questions, and in an effort to dispel any misinformation, I am willing to briefly open the floor for discussion. If you have any questions or comments, please form a straight line, and I will address as many as my schedule will allow."

An uncomfortable hush settles throughout the room.

"Uh, you know, Rachel," Mr. Schuester begins. "I don't really think this is necessary. We all really appreciate your honesty, though. Right, guys?"

There are a few approving mumbles, but the room remains mostly silent. That is, until Artie timidly raises his hand.

Rachel smiles. "Yes, Artie?"

"Well, I was just wondering…I mean, I think we're all kind of wondering…if I may ask…well, is Puck _really_ the, you know, father?"

"Shut _up_," Mercedes hisses in a low tone, slapping his shoulder.

"You were the one who wanted to know!" he replies, shielding himself from another blow.

"I didn't want you to _ask_ her! That's just –"

"No, it's fine," Rachel says, cutting them off. She stares intently at Puck, willing him to say _something_, but his stance is unwavering. He squirms a bit under her gaze, but she knows that he has made up his mind and she won't change it (which is infuriating, she'd like to add). She looks away, trying desperately to keep her emotions in check. She has the sudden urge to snap his neck, and she's pretty sure she could do it if she tried.

"Yes, it's Puck," she says flatly. "Next?"

The collective gasp is startlingly loud, but the chatter that follows is quite nearly deafening. She clears her throat, but she knows that she's lost their attention. She crosses her arms, lets out an angry huff, and storms out of the room -- the scene goes unnoticed by nearly everyone. After rolling his eyes, Puck gets up from his chair and quickly follows her into the hallway.

"Wait up, Berry," he calls, trying to match her pace, which, he's finding, is harder than he expected. She's hardcore about her temper tantrums, this girl.

Just as he reaches her, she spins on her heels and starts coming toward him. His first instinct is to cower backwards. He's never seen a girl look so fucking _scary_ before.

"You can't do things like that!" she cries, waving her index finger indignantly.

"Like _what_?"

"You can't just leave me to fend for myself. If you're in this, then you're _in it_. All of it. You should have said something in there. You should have been standing next to me. I don't have the luxury of pretending this doesn't exist, Puck, and you shouldn't, either."

"I told you I thought it was a stupid idea!"

"It doesn't matter! You're supposed to support me anyway! How am I supposed to trust that you're going to be here for this baby if you think it's okay to just ignore me whenever you see fit? _It's not okay_."

"Berry," Puck puts his hands on her shoulders, but she quickly pulls away. "calm down."

"Don't _Berry_ me, Puck," she warns. "I mean it."

He knows she does.

"_Rachel_, listen to me," he pleads, his voice softening. "I'm sorry, okay? This is all new to me, you know? I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing here. I'm freaking out."

"I'm _telling you_ what you're supposed to be doing here. If you ever listened to a word I said, you'd _know_ what you're supposed to be doing," she replies, her tone as harsh as ever.

"I'm trying, okay?"

"Well, you're not trying hard enough!"

She launches into a new tirade now, and he's not even sure if she's speaking English. She's just screaming and flailing her arms and acting certifiably insane, and he's not really sure what's coming over him in this moment, but all he wants to do is kiss her. So he does.

When they pull apart, Rachel is dumbfounded.

"I didn't give you permission to do that," she squeaks. "Why would you do that?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"That's not fair. You can't kiss me when we're fighting. It's a rule."

"I'd really like to see this rule book, Berry."

"I'm going to resume yelling in approximately three seconds."

"Fair enough."

"When I'm done, l give you permission to do it again."

**A/N: Today is my birthday. I'm not even kidding you right now. Aside from horrifyingly large amounts of ice cream cake from Dairy Queen, all I want is to know how you feel about this chapter. What can I say? I'm low-maintenance. **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Sorry for the length of this chapter, and also how long it took to get it out. It's been a shitty week and I haven't been able to devote any real time to this, and every time I tried, I felt like I was hitting my head against a brick wall. So, I thought it would be best to hammer out what I could, publish it, then move on. **

**Thanks for all the reviews, again. I got the 100****th**** review yesterday, which is just silly and amazing. You guys are probably the most generous and **_**adorable**_** fandom I've ever written for (effin' **_**Grey's Anatomy**_** has nothing on you lot). Also, thanks for the birthday wishes. It was a **_**most**_** excellent day. Happy belated birthday to those of you who also came into this world on the 15****th**** – congratulations, that's the day that cool people are born!**

"We should discuss what's happening here."

They're walking down the hall together when she says it. Puck groans. They'd be _over_ and _over_ this, and he thinks it's pretty obvious what's happening here. It has been a little over a week since the initial kiss, and while that seems like a ridiculously short amount of time (even to him), they have somehow managed to fall into a comfortable groove. They're not dating, not even _kind of_, but they do end up spending a fair amount of time together, and yes, the kissing has continued, and neither has any complaints – well, actually, Rachel would like it if Puck could stop blaring Nickelback every time she gets in his truck (just to annoy her, because he knows she _hates it_) and Puck has requested a daily quiet time, during which Rachel shoves her head into a pillow and attempts to be completely silent for ten minutes. But these are minor infractions, in the grand scheme of things.

"I kissed you, and then you kissed me…"

"Correction: I allowed _you_ to kiss _me_ again."

"_Fine_. I kissed you, then you totally begged me to do it again, and so now we kiss and I walk you to your classes and stuff, and you love it. _What_ is the big deal?"

"The big deal, Noah, is that our relationship is still wholly undefined, despite the overly simplistic and generally false summary you've just provided. We need to set clear expectations and boundaries, or things will get weird."

Puck has no idea what she's just said, so he offers his fail-safe reply, "Can I kiss you now?"

"_No_."

He smiles, and she rolls her eyes.

"…Yes. Fine. Get it over with."

As he begins to pull her toward him, she pushes away.

"Wait, no. No. I think that a relationship formed out of something like this is a bad idea. It's doomed to fail. We could never work."

"The kissing works."

Rachel blushes. "A relationship is much more than kissing, though. Just because we kiss does not mean we're compatible people."

Puck nods wisely. "So, just to make sure I'm understanding you correctly, you _are_ suggesting that we do it, right? To make sure we're _compatible_?"

Rachel ignores this. She's learning to pick her battles.

"Let's be honest. You think I'm obnoxious and I find most everything you say and do _completely_ repulsive, and if it weren't for our predicament, you'd still be treating me to slushie facials every other day, and I'd still be compiling a list of all the elicit activities you take part in on school grounds and forwarding it to the school resource officer every Friday."

"That was you? Now I feel kind of bad for beating up that Jacob kid."

"As we've previously discussed, a pleasant acquaintanceship would be appropriate, and it seems that we have achieved that. However, it would now appear that we have progressed further than originally anticipated, and I believe we need to reevaluate the things we're doing and why we're doing them. The kissing, for instance."

"Berry, don't _even_ pretend that you're not all over the kissing."

"While I will concede that it is not _unpleasant_, I stand by my original statement. We need to talk about it. What does it _mean_? It is a friendly thing?"

"Well, I'm not exactly slipping my tongue in Finn's mouth, so…"

"So it's a romantic gesture?"

Puck shrugs. "Yeah, I guess, whatever."

"Are we kissing other people, then? Or is this exclusive kissing?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe _what_?" Rachel glowers at him. This is not a difficult question and he's being vague on purpose and she wants to _kill him_. "Maybe we're kissing other people, or maybe we're not?"

"The second one. Maybe. I don't know."

Rachel stops walking, and it takes Puck a few seconds to notice. When he turns around, she's staring at him with her mouth gaping.

"You need to consider your motives, Noah. Is this coming from some warped obligation to be romantically involved with the mother of your child-to-be? Because if so, I suppose I _appreciate_ the gesture, but I'm also kind of offended, because…"

"It's not like I'm asking you to marry me, Berry, so chill."

It's a lame answer, he knows this, but he can't just come out and _say_ that he finds her presence almost enjoyable (in a masochistic kind of way way), and that he thinks she's probably the funniest person ever (particularly when she's not trying to be), and that he's actually kind of attracted to her (it's just a shame about her clothes), and that every time he kisses her, it's more thrilling than the time before (but only because _she's_ totally into it).

He starts walking again, and she quickly matches his pace.

"Are you _sure_ about this? Because really, if you think about it, it's kind of…"

He leans in and kisses her quickly, and it's practically over before she even realizes that it's happened.

"Why do you keep _doing that_?"

"I figure since we're not kissing other people, I don't have to ask anymore."

"Well. I guess that's fair." Rachel straightens her shirt. "But I'd appreciate a _warning_."

* * *

Puck is not so great with parents. Well, actually, he's pretty freaking _awesome_ with moms, but dads? Not so much. They immediately write him off as an immoral, irresponsible, womanizing loser with a criminal record (it's all true, if you replace loser with rock star, and remember that _all he did _was nail the gay kid's lawn furniture to his roof, and it's not like anyone _died_), and they never give him a chance to prove that he can be a mildly decent boyfriend for a short period of time.

It would totally fucking figure that Rachel has two dads and zero moms.

He's not really sure how he even ended up here. Rachel had told him he didn't have to come. In fact, she kind of begged him not to. Thinking now, _that's_ probably why he's here. When Berry tells him not to do something, he always does it anyway, because she gets all flustered and shrieky, and it's usually hilarious. He's trying not to do it as much now, since she's hormonal and shit, but sometimes she just makes it too easy.

He's never really seen her house before – the only other time he'd even been inside, he was pretty anxious to get to her room, so they didn't really have time for a grand tour. It only takes five minutes in her living room to figure out why Rachel is so goddamn full of herself – the entire room is a shrine to the little drama queen. Framed photos of her (from birth to what looks like sometime last week) cover the walls, and every flat surface in the room supports some sort of trophy or award that she's garnered over the years. He's gaping at a tiara awarded to her at the tender age of one ("Little Miss Lima 1994" was the inscription) when Rachel enters the room.

"They're coming," she announces. "Sit down. They're coming."

Puck knows that this is not the time to do anything but obey, so he sits.

She hangs by the doorway, nervously peering into the hallway every few seconds. He hears footsteps coming down the stairs, and suddenly his stomach does a flip, and he thinks hers might have, too, because she's clutching at her shirt and looks a little green.

Seconds later, Rachel is ushering her parents into the room. She quickly gestures for him to stand, which makes no sense because she _just told him to sit_, but that's kind of typical Berry, so whatever. He stands up just as her dad (or is it daddy? Rachel showed him pictures, but he wasn't really listening. At any rate, it's the one that looks so much like her, it's frightening) pulls him into an embrace. Puck is not really a hugger, especially not with dudes, and _really_, _seriously_, _definitely_ not with gay dudes, but Rachel is smiling brightly in front of him, and he knows how quickly that smile can turn into a death glare, so it he just goes with it.

"Uh, thanks, Mr. Berry," he manages. "It's nice to meet you?"

"Please, call me Seth," he says, releasing Puck from the hug. He gestures to the tall, dark man behind him and adds, "This is Pete."

Pete doesn't do the hugging thing, thank God, but he does shake Puck's hand (though it feels more like he's attempting to _break_ Puck's hand), smiling warmly.

Once everyone has been sufficiently introduced, Rachel encourages them to sit. Her dads take the matching armchairs on one side of the coffee table, while Puck reclaims his spot on the sofa. Rachel remains standing. Puck figured that she'd sit next to him and he'd hold her hand or whatever, like on television. But then, Rachel's always been more of a solo artist, and he knows this. It's still weird for him, though, and now he's kind of thinking he really_ shouldn't_ be here, and maybe, for once, Rachel was right to suggest that she do this by herself, because what purpose is he serving, sitting on their overstuffed couch, twiddling his thumbs as she gives her parents the worst news ever? He'll answer that: none.

He considers pretending that his house is on fire, but before he can covertly set his ringtone off, Rachel clears her throat and stoically announces that she has something to say.

* * *

This is it.

Well, if Rachel could actually bring herself to speak, this would be it. Every time she tries to formulate a sentence, her mind goes blank. Being a natural performer, Rachel doesn't really have a frame of reference when it comes to stage fright, but she thinks this must be what it feels like. Her parents are staring at her, and she's pretty sure they're expecting her to announce that she is courting this upstanding, young Jew, which is just completely tragic and kind of makes her want to melt into the floor in a puddle of shame.

She needs to snap out of this. She is _better than this_. She's not the person that hides from a problem – she faces it head on and solves it.

_Ready_.

She memorizes the way her parents are looking at her in this moment – the way they've _always_ looked at her. They can hardly keep their love and admiration from bubbling over, not that they would even try. They are her biggest fans, and in their eyes, she's perfect. She's fairly certain that they'll never look at her the same way again, and she wants to remember what it feels like.

_Set_.

She makes it a point to take deep, regular breaths, because she keeps forgetting that she'll die if she doesn't, and she feels like her lungs are about to explode.

"Dad, Daddy, I need to tell you something."

_Go_.

"I'm pregnant."

There is a moment of confusion, because her parents are certain they _did not just hear_ what they think they just heard, and then the words settle like debris from an explosion, and it feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the house.

After several minutes of excruciating silence, Seth is the first to speak.

"What are your plans?"

"I'd like to…" She stops herself. This is not the time to appear uncertain. "I'm _going to_ keep it. I'm confident that I can finish this school year without issue. I'll have the baby in May, and then I'll have the summer to work out my schedule for next fall."

"Rachel, honey," he says softly. "We've raised you to be a practical person. You're not going to keep this baby." The words come awkwardly, like he can't quite process the fact that he's just had to say that to his sixteen-year-old daughter.

She stands tall, squaring her shoulders.

"I don't believe that's up for discussion."

Seth pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Rachel."

"Daddy."

"Don't be difficult about this. We'll just do what we need to do and then we'll just put it behind us, okay?"

Her hands instinctually fly to her stomach. "_No_."

"Rachel, we are not _doing this_. You're going to graduate high school, and you're going to go to Julliard, and you're going to be an _amazing_ performer. You are _not _going to have a baby at sixteen."

"I can still do all of those things, Daddy. I _know_ that I can," She says, and it's kind of a lie, because all she really _knows_ is that she's two seconds away from bursting into tears (hormones: 1, Rachel: 0).

The smaller mans is standing now. He mutters something about _so much promise_ before storming out of the room.

(Puck makes a mental note to make fun of Rachel for being so much like him, once things aren't so shitty)

Rachel turns to her dad, who has been silently staring at his hands the whole time.

"Dad?"

He swallows hard, then stands.

"Please, don't go," she whispers, scrambling to the doorway to block his exit. She's trying not to appear too hysterical, but it's hard. She feels like the weight on her heart might actually kill her.

He takes her face in his hands and kisses her forehead.

"If you're sure about this, then we'll support you. Are you _sure_ that you're sure?"

Rachel nods before throwing herself into his arms. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"I know," Pete replies. He hugs her tightly, until a door slams upstairs, causing them both to jump. "I'll talk to him. He'll come around, but it's going to take some time."

"I know," Rachel sniffles. She hugs him again before he starts toward the door. He has always been the peacemaker in their family, mainly because out of the three of them, he's the only one who doesn't favor screaming and/or performing dramatic monologues from various musicals when things don't go their way. She's glad he's her dad.

Before exiting the room, Pete turns to Puck. "You and I," he announces, his eyes narrowing angrily. "will talk later."

In turn, Puck comes very close to wetting his pants.

* * *

When it's just the two of them, Rachel sighs heavily and dramatically plops onto the couch. She looks like she's just seen a ghost. Or kind of like she's just told her parents that she's pregnant. It's weird, seeing her this way. Fragile is not a word he'd ever consider using to describe Rachel Berry, but in this moment, she looks like she might shatter into a million little pieces.

Puck gently rubs her back and goes through all the encouraging phrases in his repertoire ("It's okay, everything's going to be fine, don't worry, be happy", repeat). The only other time he has had to comfort a girl was when Santana dropped her iPhone in Quinn's hot tub and her parents wouldn't buy her a new one until Christmas – she cried for, like, a week. So he's not really sure if this is the right thing to do, but Rachel isn't yelling at him, so he keeps at it.

A heated exchange is taking place above them, and fragments of the conversation drift downstairs, causing Rachel to stiffen.

"So, they're kind of…intense," Puck smirks. "I guess you were doomed from the start, huh?"

"I'm sorry you had see that," she says, wincing as _another_ door is forced shut upstairs (it is really quite a wonder that they've only had to replace the hinges twices this year). "and hear that."

He shrugs. "My mom's pretty crazy, too. You should have seen her that time she found dirty pictures of Kathy Lee Gifford on my laptop."

Rachel chooses not to respond, and the room is silent.

"Do you want to get out of here for awhile?" he asks when he can no longer stand the quiet.

She sits up and wipes her eyes. "Very much so."

* * *

**A/N: Basically, it's taken me FOREVER to get this short, boring chapter out, so I'm ending it here – sorry that it's abrupt. Things will pick up. I promise.**

**Okay, also, does it freak anyone else out that the Gleeks are 16 and therefore born in 1993-ish? 1993 was two days ago. I'm not old, but that makes me feel ancient. Freaking **_**ancient**_**.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys! I appreciate them. Happy holidays to those who had a holiday to celebrate – I hope it was a great one. I had a lovely, **_**white**_** Christmas – first time in my life, I swear. **

**Just so you guys know, I got a little bored writing this chapter, so I took a break and wrote the majority of the last chapter (well, maybe second to last – there will probably be an epilogue). I hope you guys will stick with me until then, because I really enjoyed writing it, and I think you'll enjoy reading it. But enough about that – on with the show!**

Just because Rachel is carrying Puck's baby and kissing him regularly, that doesn't give her permission to boss him around, and it _definitely_ does not give her permission to touch the radio in his truck, _especially_ when he's just landed on his favorite radio station. He knows what she's about to do, and though he generally avoids hitting girls (and, grudgingly, he'll admit that Berry _is a girl_), he slaps her hand away from the volume dial before she can adjust it. Sometimes these things just have to be done.

"I find it incredibly sad that you are so insecure about your sexuality that you must resort to listening to this testosterone-soaked _garbage_," she sniffs. "It's _awful_."

"Not everyone listens to show tunes, Berry."

"Which is a shame, really." She pulls out her bubblegum pink iPod and smiles hopefully. "I just added a _fabulous_ cast recording of...."

Puck can feel his manhood shrinking at the thought of listening to a cast recording of _anything_, so he quickly shuts her down. "Driver picks the music. When _you_ start carting _me_ around, we'll listen to whatever you want." Not true, but it's not like he has to worry about it for now.

"I would most certainly drive _if I could_, but I can't, and you know that."

"Works out well for me, doesn't it?"

He turns the music up now, and Rachel makes it a point to wince dramatically, which brings a smile to Puck's face – he's learned that there is a very fine line between hilariously angry Rachel and frighteningly angry Rachel, and he's becoming more comfortable balancing between the two (because there is no middle ground).

"A bit of culture wouldn't kill you, you know," she huffs. "Have you ever even _seen _a Broadway production?"

"Not a one, and I think I'll keep it that way."

She gives him a withering stare before turning to face the window. She stays this way until the truck starts slowing to a stop.

"What are you doing?"

Puck pulls to the side of the road and puts the truck in park, then turns to Rachel, smiling devilishly. "Trade places with me," he says, already halfway out the car. When he gets to her side of the vehicle, she hasn't budged.

"Berry, move it."

"W-what? Why?"

"I'm going to teach you how to drive."

Rachel snorts (which she realizes is not particularly lady-like, but _honestly_, the absurdity of this situation is just too much to bear). "Funny. Get back in the car."

"Move over and I will."

"Noah, _no_. It's unsafe. I could kill us. It's _illegal_. These kinds of things go on _permanent records_."

"Only if you get caught," he replies, opening the door. "Come on, it's freezing out here.

She grabs the door to pull it shut, but he grip his steady and it doesn't move. "This is a bad idea."

"People say that about most things I do, but I've turned out alright."

"That's debatable," she murmurs. "You're not going to give up on this?"

"Probably not."

Rachel yanks her seatbelt to the side and drudgingly climbs out of the seat, as if it's an incredibly draining task (it is, but only for her ego). She is usually the one telling other people what they're going to do, and she can't say that she enjoys being on the other side. She glares at him, then realizes that maybe she shouldn't do it so often, because he's completely unfazed.

Puck adjusts the seat so that Rachel can actually reach the pedals, then he hands her the keys.

"You just stick this in…"

"I know how to start a car," she says, putting the key in the ignition and turning it. The truck starts, and she shifts from park to drive, but keeps her foot steady on the brake. When Puck raises his eyebrows, she scoffs. "It's not hard to pick up on these things. However, my knowledge ends here. As hard as it is for me to say this, you're going to have to tell me what to do now."

Puck is delighting in this, she's sure.

"Just ease up on the brake, then steer the wheel left, but not too far – it doesn't take much."

Rachel nods slowly, going over the instructions a few times in her head before trying.

"Now give it some gas."

She takes a deep breath, then taps the gas pedal. The car jerks a bit, causing a small squeak to escape her lips as she slams on the brakes. A light blush creeps across her face when he starts laughing. "It's not _funny_."

"Sorry," he says, even though he's not. "Try it again, and don't scream this time."

"You are so obnoxious," she growls. "If it wouldn't kill _me_, I'd drive this stupid truck into the lake."

"Well, since that would require you reaching speeds of over ten miles an hour, I'm not really concerned."

She purses her lips tightly, then presses lightly on the pedal. The truck jumps again, but it's not quite as rough as before. She inhales sharply as they gain speed. This isn't so bad.

"Turn left there," he says, gesturing toward an upcoming intersection.

"Oh, I'd rather not turn just yet," she replies, her hands gripping the steering wheel tighter than before. "Can we keep going straight?"

"Sure, if you want to drive right into the police station parking lot. What were you saying earlier about permanent records?"

Rachel's eyes grow wide, and Puck smirks. "Start slowing down, then merge into the turn lane up here. There's no arrow, just a green light, so you have to yield before you can actually turn."

Rachel does as she's told, and soon they're sitting in the middle of the intersection, waiting for a clear chance to turn. "Okay," Puck says. "You should be good after…"

Before he can finish the sentence, Rachel is turning – directly into oncoming traffic. In a moment of panic, she presses the gas pedal as far down as it will go, and the truck flies through the intersection, narrowly missing several cars. Horns honk all around them, but they can barely be heard over Rachel's screaming in horror and Puck screaming obscenities.

"What the _fuck_ was that, Berry?!" he cries, fairly certain she's just shaved twenty years off his life.

"You told me to turn!"

"I told you to turn when it was _clear_!"

"I thought it was! I have depth perception issues!"

"I'll say! Christ, you almost killed me back there!" He clutches his chest, wondering if he's about to have a heart attack. "Pull over."

"_Gladly_," she spits, roughly yanking the steering wheel to the right, causing Puck to fly against the door. "And this was _your_ idea, by the way, so if anyone almost killed anyone, it was you who almost killed me." She slams on the brake and quickly shifts it into park, before exiting the car in a huff. Puck expects her to resume her rightful place in the passenger's seat, but instead, she starts down the sidewalk.

"What are you doing? Get back in the truck."

"_Never_." She starts walking faster now, her arms drawn close to her chest. It's incredibly cold for late November, and she's kicking herself for not thinking to grab her jacket from the truck before storming out. She's also annoyed that she didn't think to throw his keys out the window or something, because now he's following behind her in his truck, and there's no way she can get away.

"Am I going to have to chase you every time you get pissy about something?" he calls from the rolled down window. "I don't even know why you're upset!"

"You _don't_ have to chase me – I'd rather you didn't, as a matter of fact."

Puck rolls his eyes. If she doesn't want to be chased, she wouldn't be running away from him. "Get back in the truck."

"I'm not getting back in the truck."

"You are _getting back in the truck_, Rachel, I swear to God, if you don't…"

"What? What will happen if I don't get back in the truck? Enlighten me, Noah." Her tone is challenging and rebellious – something he'd more likely hear from himself, not her.

Puck hadn't really thought that far. He grasps for something to say, but he's got nothing. "Just…get back in the truck, okay? I'll drive and you can listen to your shitty music and…"

He's cut off by the sound of her cell phone ringing. She glares at him pointedly, muttering about how it had _better_ not be him, because that wasn't funny the first time and it wouldn't be funny this time (he would like clarify that it was actually hilarious the first time). He's surprised by how quickly the anger dissolves from her voice when flips the phone open and answers quietly. "Daddy?"

She's on the phone for several minutes, and Puck feels like he's intruding on a private moment, even though he can only hear half the conversation. He rolls the windows up to lessen his guilt, but he can still see her, and it's uncomfortable. He would just leave, but that would constitute abandoning his pregnant, kinda-sorta girlfriend in the cold without a ride, and he's decent enough to know that that's not cool.

She eventually closes her phone and slowly makes her way toward the truck. She opens the door and smiles sheepishly. "I'm ready to get back in the truck now, if I am still allowed."

Normally Puck would make some sort of joke here, but kind of senses that this isn't the time. So instead, he just shrugs. She takes it as a yes and climbs in.

"Want me to take you home?"

She nods. "Daddy's making dinner, and our presence has been requested."

"What? No! I never agreed to dinner, Berry."

"They want you there, Puck. I guess you don't have to stick around, but how would that look? I realize that other people's opinions about you is not exactly high on your list of concerns, but you're stuck with me for the next eighteen years, and therefore by extension, you are stuck with my parents. The impression you make right now will shape your relationship with them for them _forever_."

Puck groans. Dinners with parents are the _worst_. Not only does he have to stop himself from mentioning anything regarding their daughter's boobs, but he also has to worry about fucking _table manners_ and the possibility of being purposely poisoned.

"Daddy's really not that bad," she adds. "Once you get to know him."

"It's not _Daddy_ I'm concerned about," he replies. "It's your _dad_. I think he's going to murder me."

Rachel laughs. "Dad? No! Dad is sweet. Dad is harmless."

* * *

Dad is not harmless. Five minutes alone with the man and Puck is most certain of this fact.

He can't believe that he's gotten himself into this situation – he really did _walk right into it_, though, so perhaps this is what he deserves for being such a fucking dumbass. When they arrived back at her house, Rachel went to find Seth, leaving Puck and Pete alone. This is where things went awry. He should have excused himself to the bathroom or something – anything to avoid being alone with Pete. But then he thought about what Rachel had said about relationships and first impressions, and he figures he has a lot of damage control ahead of him, seeing as how the first time her dads ever saw Puck was just before Rachel's big announcement. So instead of finding a hiding place, he tries to talk to the guy.

Definitely the biggest mistake of his life, and it's all _Rachel's_ fault. Figures.

Pete leads him up the stairs and through the first door in the long hallway. Large bookshelves make the room seem smaller than it is. He gestures to an overstuffed chair, asking Puck to sit. Pete leans against the dark, oak desk. They lock eyes and stare in silence for several seconds.

"Please forgive my assumption," Pete eventually says. "but is it correct to conclude that you are Rachel's boyfriend?"

Puck thinks about his reply carefully. Does he admit that they've only been on speaking terms for a week and a half? Does he mention the possibility of exclusive kissing? What would happen if he were honest about the fact that Rachel was practically a one night stand, considering the duration of their relationship? He suddenly sees flashes of his funeral (closed casket, because his killer actually ripped his entire face off) and decides against all of this.

"Me and Ber…err, _Rachel_ have been dating for six months. We're very…serious."

It's a lie. A big, huge lie. He's not sure that's what he planned to say, but that wasn't it. Lying to authority figures is a habit that's hard to break.

"That's interesting, because the only time Rachel ever mentions you is when she comes home with new clothes on. You like to throw snow cones at her, is this correct?"

"Slushies, actually," he replies. "It's, uh, it's just a game we play. She slushes me all the time." He laughs quietly at this, because Berry could _never_ slush him, even if she wanted to. There's an art to it – it takes months to master. "I'm not sure why she hasn't mentioned me. I guess that's something you'll have to ask her about."

_That's the ticket_. Put it off on Berry.

"I see," Pete replies evenly, folding his hands in his lap. "You'll have to excuse my lack of originality here, but what exactly are your intentions with my daughter?"

God, Puck hates this question. Usually because all he intends to do is have sex. Things with Rachel are kind of different, though, thanks to the little soon-to-be spawn.

"Well, I'm here, aren't I? I plan to do whatever I have to do. I'll stick around."

Pete seems less pleased with this answer than Puck had expected.

"Rachel has a lot of potential," he says. "You may not have noticed, but we have very specific ideas about her future, and despite this admittedly large roadblock, we do plan to keep her heading in that direction."

"Cool," Puck shrugs, unsure of where this is going.

"I guess what I'm wondering, Noah, is what _your_ plans are? Unless you can attend school and eventually work in New York, your support might be…more of a _hindrance_. Do you understand what I'm saying?

"You're worried that I'm going to hold her back, or whatever?"

"If I can be frank, yes. Now, please don't misunderstand me. I'm not telling you to stay out of her life – I can't do that. Rachel makes her own decisions, and if she wants you around, then I'm not going to overrule that. But I do hope that if you truly want the best for Rachel's future, you will do everything in your power to help her achieve her goals, even if that includes removing yourself from the equation."

For one of the first times in his life, Puck is at a loss for words. He hangs his head slightly.

Before either of them can make another move, Rachel taps on the doorframe before letting herself in. "Dinner is ready. What are you two doing up here?"

"Just getting acquainted," Pete says with a smile. He claps Puck's shoulder as he rises to his feet. "Let's eat."

* * *

The table, which easily seats twelve, is set for a feast, and Puck briefly wonders how in the world they could have put something together this fast – then he remembers that they're Jewish, and if Jews know anything, it's how to eat in times of stress. He waits for Rachel to sit and then quickly grabs the chair next to her. He really doesn't want to risk sitting next to either one of her parents.

Dinner is tame, and Puck has a feeling that it's normally not. Rachel seems eager to engage the group in enthusiastic conversation, and she's met with monosyllabic replies (he almost feels bad for the jabber-mouth). It's easy to see that her parents are hurt, even though they're putting their best face forward. He can't really blame them, since _he's_ still a little shaken up about the whole situation, despite having a week to process it – they've known for a paltry four hours. He's surprised that they're being as nice as they are, really – he's pretty sure his mother will give him the silent treatment for _at least_ a month after she finds out (which will be _never_, if he has his way).

By the time dessert is served, Rachel looks as if she might have a nervous breakdown, Seth has come extremely close to crying _several_ times, and Pete is gripping the table so hard, his knuckles have gone white. This was probably not the best idea, and he's not sure how he's the only one who sees that. He's got to get out of here.

"You know," he begins. "this has been…really, _really_ great, Mister and, uh, Mister Berry, but it's getting late, and…"

"It's 8:30, Noah," Rachel replies.

"I've got homework, though. You know, math homework."

"You haven't attended a math class in two years," she whispers.

"Exactly. I have a lot to catch up on."

"_You are not leaving_." She's barely whispering, but her tone is sharp.

"It _is _getting late, Rachel," Pete says. "We should probably wrap this up anyway."

"But we've hardly even…"

Seth stands and begins to clear plates from the table. "It's been a _long_ day, honey."

Pete rises from his chair as well, and soon the two of them disappear into the kitchen.

"_Look _what you did!" Rachel hisses, dramatically pushing her chair away from the table.

"Oh, yeah, because things were going _great_ before," he says with a snort. "That was horrible. I want to go hang myself, that's how depressing the past hour has been."

"Well, it's not like you didn't play a part in that. You didn't say a single word!"

"Were you too busy listening to your own voice to realize that _no one_ said a single word, except for you?"

Rachel scoffs and opens her mouth to speak several times, before setting her face in a steely glare. "Goodnight, Noah."

"I don't really have homework – well, I do, but I wasn't planning on doing it. Do you want…"

She walks wordlessly out of the room, toward the front door. When she pulls it open, a rush of cool air fills the room. "I said goodnight."

* * *

There are a lot of things happening in Puck's life that he didn't expect – he's in the fucking _glee club_, for God's sake. He sings and dances with total freaks, and he doesn't even hate it. And of course the whole _Rachel Berry is pregnant_ thing – that was definitely not something he had in mind. He also didn't imagine that he'd ever go without sex for two weeks, but first he found out about the baby, and that really takes it out of a guy, and then he got all stupid and told Berry that he'd date her or whatever, and she's too busy yelling at him and barfing every ten minutes to get it on.

Another thing that never crossed his mind was the idea that if Berry chose to ignore him for, say, an _entire_ school day, it would drive him absolutely insane. What kind of alternate universe is this? Three weeks ago, he'd be throwing a damn party if she left him alone for a whole day. Now, here he is, sitting in the choir room twenty minutes before Glee rehearsal is supposed to start, because she always comes in early to do vocal warm-ups and shit, and he hopes that if they're alone, she'll start talking to him again. God, he's fucking whipped already.

Just as he expected, she shows up long before the rest of the group is scheduled to arrive. When she seems him sitting in the corner, her expression shifts from slightly pinched and annoyed to _very_ pinched and annoyed, and it appears that she briefly considers turning around, but then changes her mind. She walks past him without a word, and finds a seat on the opposite side of the room.

"You're going to talk to me eventually, you know." He's sitting next to her now, draping an arm across her shoulder.

She narrows her eyes until they've practically disappeared, and shrugs his arm away.

"I actually didn't realize that you were physically capable of keeping your mouth shut for more than thirty seconds. Is this painful for you? Did you have to practice?"

Her right leg is bouncing nervously. Puck knows she's wavering. Time to go in for the kill.

"So, I watched that musical last night – you know, the one you're always freaking out about? The one about all those freaks in New York City? Shit almighty, Berry, I knew you were a total freak but I thought you were better than _that_. People paid to see that crap?"

She's staring at the ceiling now, and he thinks she might draw blood if she bites her bottom lip any harder.

"I mean, the lesbians were pretty hot, I'll give you that. But otherwise? It kind of made me want to kill myself."

Three, two, one.

"It's called _Rent_, and I'll have you know, it is one of the greatest musicals of this generation. Your lack of taste continues to astound me."

God, sometimes she really does make it too easy. He didn't even watch the stupid show, he just looked up a few videos on YouTube. He wasn't lying about those lesbians, though. He definitely wouldn't kick Idina Menzel out of his bed for singing a show tune.

"So, now that you've broken your streak, are you going to explain why you've been such a bitch today?"

"I don't know, maybe after you explain why my dads quizzed me all night about the state of our relationship? Why do they think we've been dating since _May_? If I recall correctly, you were still hell-bent on destroying my life last May. You were hell-bent on destroying my life last _month_."

Puck rolls his eyes. "Maybe I fudged the timeline a little, because I didn't want him to think that we did it on the first date, and maybe I told I gave the impression that we were really serious. What's the big deal?"

"The big deal is that I had to lie about something that really didn't need to be lied about. I know that your relationship with your mother centers around distrust and lying, but I make it a point to be honest with my parents."

"Does hiding a pregnancy for three months fall under honesty? Just curious."

Rachel's ears redden, but she chooses not to justify his question with an answer. "Speaking of your mother…"

"Oh, I'd really rather not speak of my mother, if that's okay with you."

"…does she know yet?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Okay, so she doesn't know yet. You are going to tell her, right?"

"_Of course_ I'm going to tell her, when the time is right."

Like in a few years, when she no longer has ample opportunities to smother him in his sleep.

"_Noah_. The longer you wait, the harder it will get." She pauses. "I'll come over tonight and we can make dinner. We can tell her together."

"Are you fucking kidding me? Have you really not reached your awkward family supper quota for the week?"

"The sooner it's out in the open, the sooner everyone can move past a place of hurting and into a place of acceptance." Rachel pulls out a notebook and pen and begins scribbling furiously. "Are there any dietary restrictions I should know about before I go grocery shopping?"

He shakes his head. "Remind me to burn all of your self-help books when I get the chance."

**A/N: Sorry again for how freaking long it's taken me to get this chapter up, and for ending it in a kind of awkward place. That is always the hardest part for me.**

**Anyway, thanks for reading, friends! If you have a minute, I'd love to hear your thoughts!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Many thanks for the reviews last chapter! You guys are great.**

**I hate to give away parts of this chapter before you even read them, but I feel like I should probably warn that things get a little…graphic toward the end. It's nothing too detailed, but still. I don't want to offend anyone. **

Rachel thinks it's odd, seeing Puck at his house. He's still a crass, boorish, oversexed miscreant, of course, but it's not quite as obvious here. He's actually tolerant of Elizabeth, his little sister, even though she keeps hanging on his arm and asking him questions ("Is she your _girlfriend_, Noah? Are you going to _kiss her_, Noah? Do you _loooove_ her, Noah?") and trying to convince him to play a Jonas Brothers song on his guitar again (he swears up and down that he's _never_ done this, but the blush creeping across his face gives him away). When she runs off to ride her bike with a neighborhood friend, Puck reminds her to wear a helmet and not to go past the stop sign at the end of the block and to let him know if any of the boys give her shit, because he'll pound their fucking skulls into the asphalt and no one will ever find the rest of their bodies. Rachel half-smiles at this (while the sentiment is sweet, she's kind of horrified that he would use such language around a _child_, and she makes a mental note to show him some studies regarding exposure to violence in childhood), which elicits threats of deleting her entire iTunes library if she doesn't "wipe that stupid smirk" off her face.

"You're a good brother, Noah," she says. "It's sweet."

He shrugs, then hands her a wooden spoon and gestures to the saucepan on the stovetop. "Be a normal girl, _for once_, and make yourself useful if you're going to be in here."

His mother will be home any minute, and she can tell that he's getting antsy, so she lets that one slide (though she's silently practicing what she'll say when she brings it up in a few days. "If you _think_ that I'm going to be objectified and treated like a domestic house slave, well, you've got another thing coming, young man. I'll _have you know_…"). She knows all too well how terrifying it is to be in his position, and despite his general lack of tact and sensitivity, he was supportive of her when she had to face her dads – of course, now she has to deal with the after-effects of his stupid lie, but still, she wants to be supportive of him, too. He would argue that being supportive of him would definitely not include forcing him to tell his mom before he's ready, which is why she's thinking these things but not saying them (which is something she's never really tried before now, and it's really _hard_).

She feels the low rumble of an opening garage door and looks to him with a smile. "It will be fine."

"Yeah, maybe she'll just shoot me to death instead of skinning me alive and _then_ shooting me to death," Puck snaps. He's suddenly white as a sheet, and she feels awful. Normally she can't find much sympathy for him, because almost everything that happens to him is unequivocally his own fault, but he was thrust into this situation the same way she was.

The slamming of a car door is heard, and soon the door leading to the garage swings open, and Mrs. Puckerman appears. She's a small woman with dark hair and tired features. Rachel thinks it's probably Puck's fault – living with him must completely exhausting.

She drops her purse and coat on the table, then greets Puck with a quick hug. "Are you _cooking_ something, Noah?"

"Well, she's helping," he says, throwing a glance in her direction. Mrs. Puckerman must not have noticed her at first, because she nearly jumps when Rachel speaks.

"Hello, Mrs. Puckerman," she says, flashing a winning smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Mrs. Puckerman blinks. "Oh. Hello." She looks to Puck, confused.

"Mom, this is Rachel." Puck comes up beside her and snakes an arm around her waist. "She's kind of like…my girlfriend."

Rachel is slightly annoyed that he's so hesitant to say it, but then, it _is _a rather tentative arrangement, and it's not like she's shouting it from the rooftops either. He could at least _try_ not to wince, though.

His mother looks like she could burst into tears at any moment, much to Rachel's surprise. What could she have done to make her hate her already? She knows that she can be a little grating, but she's hardly said anything. She wonders briefly if somehow Mrs. Puckerman knows about the baby – some sort of women's intuition or something.

And then Mrs. Puckerman is smiling and laughing and hugging Rachel and squeezing Noah's face and going on about how her Noah has never brought a girl home before, and how she thought that maybe he was gay because he would never talk to her about girls, but _no_, he's got a _girlfriend_ and she's _Jewish_. Rachel suddenly feels a bit self-conscious about her nose.

She takes over her spot at the stove, despite Rachel's protests. "Don't be silly! You're a guest, dear. Take a seat and tell me all about yourself. I want to know _everything_," she says, before turning to Puck. "What's wrong with you? Putting this lovely young lady to work? If I weren't so happy, I'd kill you." She looks back to Rachel. "Do you need anything, Rachel? Noah, see if your girlfriend wants anything, don't just stand there."

Rachel likes this woman.

* * *

"Are you a cheerleader, Rachel? Is that how you met Noah?" Mrs. Puckerman asks, placing a serving of pasta on Elizabeth's plate. She had completely taken over dinner, and though Rachel feels a little bad about letting her cook for them when they're about to give her such awful news, she's also kind of relieved, because she's pretty sure Puck can't even boil water and she's not exactly Julia Child, either.

Puck laughs at his mother's question, as if there's no way Rachel could possibly be a Cheerio. She's purposed not to glare at him while in the presence of his family (they have a pretense to uphold, after all), but his flippancy brings her fairly close to stomping his foot under the table.

"We're in Glee club together," she replies. "But we met some time ago."

_On the second day of our freshman year, when he threw eggs at me_, she'd like to add.

She nods, taking a seat at the table. "And how did you become close? My Noah is such a sweet boy – I'm sure he just swept you off your feet."

It's Rachel's turn to laugh now, and Puck is not nearly as talented at masking his displeasure as she is. He glowers at her for a moment, before answering the question for her. "It just kind of happened," he shrugs.

Her fathers would never accept an answer like that from her, but she thinks Mrs. Puckerman is probably used to short, vague replies from Puck.

"So, how long have you two been going steady?" she asks, causing Puck to snort.

Rachel looks to him, unsure of how to answer. She still doesn't understand why they need to pretend that their relationship is more than what it is, but she does wonder if both sets of parents should get the same story, simply for the sake of consistency. "I'll, uh, let Noah answer that one," she replies, hoping that Mrs. Puckerman hasn't picked up on her hesitancy. "I'm bad with timelines," she reasons. "A year, a month, a week and four days…it all just sort of runs together."

He mutters something under his breath about throwing her entire collection of sequined leg warmers out the back of a moving vehicle, then casually says, "It's been awhile. Can we just eat now, please?"

Mrs. Puckerman rolls her eyes, but the smile remains on her face. She passes Puck the serving dish before turning her attention back to Rachel. "Tell me more about your little music club. What kind of songs do you sing? Noah can play some Jonas Brothers on his guitar, you know, if you ever wanted to do something like that."

Puck's threats of mass murder fall on deaf ears as Mrs. Puckerman describes, in great detail, the one-man shows he puts on for his sister before bed.

* * *

Dinner goes by quickly, and soon Elizabeth is sent to bed. It's getting late, and Rachel knows that the time to tell Mrs. Puckerman is upon them. She almost doesn't want to, because they are having such a pleasant evening – she's clearly made an excellent first impression on Puck's mother, but she knows that none of their previous bonding will mean anything when she learns about their predicament. But if they chicken out now, they'll find a reason to chicken out again later. It has to be done.

She looks to Puck, and they share a moment of unspoken agreement and understanding.

"Mom," Puck begins, his voice smaller than Rachel has ever heard it. "can you sit down for a minute? Please?"

Mrs. Puckerman, who has been fluttering around the kitchen for the past several minutes, stops scrubbing the pan floating in the sink. She quickly wipes her hands on a dish towel, then sits across from them at the table. "Yes, dear?"

"I need to tell you something, but you have to promise not to freak out, okay?"

She nods slowly. "Go ahead."

He takes a deep breath. "MeandRacheldiditandnowshe'sknockedup."

Mrs. Puckerman looks at him quizzically. "Excuse me?"

"She's pregnant, mom. Rachel's pregnant."

Rachel is surprised to find that hearing those words leave Puck's mouth hurts just as much as when she says it herself. The now-familiar weight on her heart is back with a vengeance. She begins to say something (she's not even sure _what_, but she feels her mouth opening), but then realizes that it isn't her place. There's nothing she can do here, except sit next to him and hold his hand if he'll let her (he won't).

Mrs. Puckerman's expression is unreadable, and the silence in the room is deafening.

"You'll marry her," she finally says.

Rachel is too shocked to speak, but Puck takes care of that for her. "Oh, _God_, mom," he groans. "Seriously, _no_. We're not even…"

"I won't have you bringing more shame to this family than your father already has. This is a nice girl, and I'm not going to let what happened to me happen to her."

"I'm _nothing_ like dad," he growls. "I'm going to support Rachel and this kid, but I'm not going to _marry _her at _sixteen_. That's insane."

Rachel thinks this is probably not the time to add that her parents would file a restraining order against Puck if they even _mentioned_ the idea of marriage.

"You're having a child at sixteen," Mrs. Puckerman replies. "_That's _insane." She stands now, and returns to the sink. Rachel's certain that she's just broken an entire stack of dishes. "I don't think you'll ever understand how disappointed I am," she sniffs. "I can't even look at you."

"I'll stay at Finn's, then."

"I think that's a good idea," Mrs. Puckerman replies quietly.

Puck stands. "Come on, Berry."

"Wait, Noah, I think you should…"

"You're walking home if you don't get up and follow me out this door," he says gruffly.

She scrambles to her feet, but can't quite bring herself to leave the room. "Get some clothes. I'll meet you in the truck, okay?"

He agrees, giving her five minutes to get in the truck before he leaves without her.

"Mrs. Puckerman," she says, cautiously making her way toward the older woman. "I just…I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

Mrs. Puckerman waves her away without a word.

* * *

"…I mean, _fuck_, I'd sooner get gay married to _Kurt_, you know?"

Finn nods, but his attention is on the screen in front of them. Puck's unexpected arrival came in the middle of Finn's nightly hour (or five) of video games, but they're best friends, so handing Puck a controller and promising to go easy on him was the least he could do.

"Can you picture the two of us, married?"

Finn furrows his eyebrows. "You and Kurt? I guess, if…"

"God! No! Me and Rachel."

"Oh," Finn laughs, relieved. "Well…no. But I couldn't really imagine you dating her, either, and you're doing that."

"Barely. We just fight with each other and then kiss it out. I haven't even seen her _boobs_ since the night we did it."

"That sucks," he says, his voice drowned out by the sound of explosives. "Oops."

"Dude! You fucking obliterated me!"

"Sorry. Do you want to go again?"

"Nah, it's kind of late." Puck tosses the controller to the side and leans back into his palette of blankets on the floor. It's barely midnight, but Rachel calls at 6:30 _every morning_ to wake him up and discuss their plans for the day. The _one_ time he turned off his phone, she nearly castrated him.

Finn nods, shutting off the game console and then flopping onto his bed. "'Night, man." He flips off the light next to his bed, and the room is filled with darkness.

An hour later, Puck sits up and shoves the sleeping figure on the bed above him. "Hey, Finn?"

"Mmph?"

"I'm good enough for her, right? You think I'm good enough for Berry?"

"Uh…yeah, sure," he mumbles.

"Her dads think I'll keep her from reaching her full potential, or some bullshit like that."

Finn mutters something in his half-asleep daze about that being a mean thing to say, and Puck suddenly feels really stupid for bringing it up. "Go back to sleep," he says. "You sound retarded."

"Mmmkay," Finn replies, already mid-snore.

Puck lies back down and closes his eyes, but sleep is nowhere to be found. His brain is in overdrive, full of thoughts about his mom (and how she'll probably never speak to him again) and Pete Berry (and how he's probably busy ordering a hit on his life) and Rachel (and how she coordinates the scent of her shampoo with the flavor of her lip gloss and how those ridiculous skirts fall at a perfect place on her legs and how she does that thing with her tongue that is probably illegal in twelve states. And also how hard this situation must be on her. He's a sensitive guy).

He manages to find his cell phone in the darkness and dials her number without really thinking. It rings _forever_, which doesn't surprise him because Rachel is usually out by ten and sleeps like the dead. He's about to hang up when her voice, heavy with sleep, comes on the line.

"Noah? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. What are you doing?"

He can almost _hear_ her glaring at him through the phone.

"Do you know what sleep deprivation can do to a singer's voice? Are you _trying_ to ruin my career? Go to sleep, Puck," she huffs.

"I can't."

"_Why_?"

Puck is silent for a moment, trying to craft his answer. He doesn't want to admit that he's really worried about fixing things with his mom, and he _really_ doesn't want to tell her that her dad scared the shit out of him, and _under no circumstances_ does she need to know that he thinks about _her_ at night, so he goes with a vague "I don't know, I just can't. Do you want to do something?"

She doesn't respond at first. "My dads will say no," she finally offers.

"Don't ask them."

"We have school in the morning."

"We won't be out that late."

"It's already _that late_."

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

"I'll see you at school."

"Wear something warm. Bring blankets."

"I'm going back to sleep now."

"Wait by the window."

"_Goodnight_, Noah."

The line goes dead. Puck pulls a t-shirt over his head and exits Finn's room quietly.

* * *

He's not the boss of her, not even slightly, and she's not going to just blindly agree to everything he says. It's late and she's tired, _dead_ tired, and her dads will be so mad, and that's the last thing she needs right now. She told him no and she _meant it_. Period. End of discussion. She had even hung up on him to prove her point. She's in charge here, and the decision has been made.

So why she's in her heaviest winter coat and juggling a stack of folded blankets, pacing by her bedroom window at 1:17 in the morning, she'll never know.

Rachel sees his truck coming around the corner and rolls her eyes when he turns off the lights and cuts the engine, coasting to a stop in front of her house. Where does he learn these things?

She stealthily pads down the hall, taking extra caution as she passes her parents' closed bedroom door. She takes the stairs carefully, avoiding the squeaky planks. She works the front locks slowly and pulls the door open, and it's heavier than normal and louder than normal, and she freezes for a moment, convinced she's just heard footsteps upstairs. However, seconds pass without another sound, so she takes a deep breath and crosses the threshold. She pulls the door shut, then practically flies down the porch steps and across the front yard. The passenger door is already open for her by the time she reaches Puck's truck.

"You had me worried there for a second. I thought you'd actually stuck to your guns," he says.

"Would that come as such a surprise?" She gingerly pulls the door shut and winces at the slight thud that follows. "And it's not like I'm particularly thrilled to be sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night, but I couldn't just let you drive around _alone_, could I? Someone has to keep you out of trouble."

"Keep telling yourself that, Berry."

* * *

"It's _freezing_ out here," she whines, allowing her teeth to chatter for good measure. "I think this is more of a summer activity, Noah."

"Keep this up and I'll throw you in," he snaps, gesturing toward the large body of water in front of them. "Shut your mouth, if you can manage it, and try to enjoy the view."

Rachel fixes her face in a glare and draws her arms around her body for heat. She had pitched quite a fit when he parked in this clearing at the lake's edge and then demanded that they leave behind the softness and warmth of the truck's cab for the hard, frigid ground, but she'll conceded that it's a beautiful sight. The lake is smooth as glass and is acting as a mirror for the clear, star filled sky.

It's still an ungodly _twenty-five degrees_, though, and blankets can only do so much. She thinks she might have already procured a case of frostbite, because her hands are alternating between numbness and intense burning.

"I'm sorry," she says, noticing the way he's staring at her with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. "but death by stargazing in sub-Arctic temperatures is not how I plan to go."

Rolling his eyes, Puck puts an arm around her waist and pulls her against him.

"_What_ are you doing?!" she shrieks, pushing away instinctually.

"Body heat," he says, rather indifferently.

"Oh." Her face takes on a pink tint. _Body heat_. It makes sense, so she allows herself to relax in his arms. It also makes sense for him to kiss her, because they're practically _courting_, and they're looking at stars together and _really,_ does it _get_ anymore romantic than _that_? So when he doesn't do it, she takes that one upon herself. He's a little taken aback, probably because she's never really initiated any sort of physical contact, but he quickly reciprocates.

It also makes sense for them to end up in a horizontal position, fiercely peppering each other's bodies with kisses. Yes, Rachel thinks that this definitely makes sense.

Soon his hands are traveling up her shirt, and she feels him stop when he reaches the slight rise of her stomach. It's not noticeable to the naked eye, but there's certainly no missing it in a situation like this.

"Is it safe?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "For the kid, I mean?"

"It's fine," she answers, her voice low and throaty.

With this affirmation, Puck continues upwards, making light work of her bra. She notices the look in his eyes, like he can't possibly believe that she's not stopping him. Frankly, she can't quite believe it either. She's not sure what she's thinking right now, except that it's hard to unbutton his jeans with numb fingers.

He's tugging at the waist of her pajama pants now and she can't stop herself from helping things along, lifting her lower half off the ground and pushing the soft fabric toward her knees. He's doing that _thing_ again, that thing where he says her name and it sounds like music, and Rachel can hardly stand it. She pushes herself against him, and then it happens. She knows what to expect, but she can't stop herself from gasping. He slows, asking if she's okay, and a quick nod is all she can manage – words escape her. It hurts a little, at first, and she's not completely sure what to do with herself, but then instinct takes over and things start making sense, and she's struck by how perfectly they work together. The first time was clumsy and painful and entirely unforgettable, but something is different now. She's not sure what, exactly, but maybe she'll try and figure it out when the circuits in her brain stop misfiring. There's a tightness building in her body, growing with every passing second, and it's like nothing she's ever felt before.

Her name escapes his lips again, and the world comes undone. The growing tension explodes, sending waves of warmth throughout her body. The lake is gone, the sky is gone, the hard, uncomfortable ground is gone, the cold is gone. It's just her and him and she wants to scream but she can't even _breathe_, and she's pretty sure she'll draw blood if she doesn't stop digging her fingers into his shoulders, but she can't stop – her body is on auto-pilot.

She is eventually able to draw a few ragged breaths as the scenery begins to reappear. She lets herself relax into the blanket on the ground, and suddenly she's spent. It's cold again, but she honestly can't imagine moving. He collapses next to her, seemingly unfazed by the impact of his body hitting the hard earth. They gravitate toward each other and soon she's in his arms, and they remain in this position for a great deal of time.

She's pretty sure that this is going to change everything, and not necessarily for the better, and she's also pretty sure that she'll be pulling twigs and leaves out of her hair for weeks. And somehow, she can't even bring herself to care.

She blames the hormones.

**A/N: Okay, I'll be completely honest. I didn't plan on that happening. At all. Those randy teenagers forced it out of me, I swear. Also, I made the mistake of having **_**As Long As You're Mine **_**from **_**Wicked**_** on repeat while writing, and that song…unf. It gets me going. **

**SO ANYWAY. From here, things are going to start picking up a bit, timeline wise. I'm trying not to rush it too much, but classes start in two weeks, and I did hope to have this story nearly finished by then. So either you'll start seeing chapters closer together or maybe chapters will cover a larger chunk of time. I realized the other day that all of the chapters so far have covered, like, _three weeks_****. If I keep going at that rate, this thing will be a freaking novel by the time it's over. **


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Love, love, love to you all. I don't always manage to reply to reviews specifically (okay, I **_**never**_** manage that – I have some sort of brain defect that prohibits me from ever replying to any sort of correspondence), but I wanted to let you all know how much I value your feedback – especially from those of you who review, like, **_**every chapter**_**. I'm not even kidding when I say that sometimes I just read all twelve pages of reviews over and over and over again. Makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. So, again, thanks. Greatness personified, that's what you guys are.**

**I wrote the majority of this around 2 AM this morning, so please forgive any weird errors. I noticed a few in the last chapter – stuff that a spell check wouldn't catch. I should probably do the whole beta reader thing, but I'm just so impatient – I always want to post it right away! The only reason I didn't post it last night, despite staying up WAY past my bed time (I seriously went to bed at 3 – ugh. I'm feeling it today) is because my internet was out. Hah. **

It was partly her fault. She can admit this to herself. She reacted poorly. _Extremely_ poorly. It's just that she was lying there, thinking about the fact that she had just snuck out of her house to have sex in the woods with Noah Puckerman, and how it wasn't like her at all – first, her parents would probably ground her for the second time in her entire life (the first being when she was eight years old and accidentally ripped her dads' favorite Barbra Streisand autograph after taking it to show and tell without permission), and second, how unsanitary is that? Animals defecate in the woods. So on top of being pregnant, she had probably caught whatever disease you can catch from doing it near bear poop. Third, it was Puck. She had wanted her first time to be something special with someone she loved, and instead it was with him, so then she decided that her second time would _definitely_ be with someone she loved, and then it was Puck _again_, and she couldn't possibly love Puck. She didn't even _like_ Puck. He was obnoxious and lewd and _so_ arrogant, and they had absolutely nothing in common, except for the small matter of their future offspring.

And he had been there for her from the very moment she told him about the baby and he put up with her ranting and raving and sometimes he even went along with her crazy ideas, and she knew that he liked being with her (even when he said things like "Shit, Berry, I swear I'll strangle myself with one of your knee socks if you _don't stop talking_."), and she kind of liked being with him, too, even when he was being a complete jerk and driving her up a wall, and…crap.

It was then that she realized that nothing in her life was happening the way she thought it would. She was having a baby fifteen years before she was ready, and she was having wilderness sex with and possibly _in love_ _with_ someone who drove her completely insane, and earlier that day, Mr. Schuester had given a solo to Tina instead of her, and those hormones that had made her deliriously happy just moments earlier had turned on her, and then she was crying.

She didn't really have a lot of personal experience in the area, but from her extensive knowledge of romance from books and movies and musicals and that one episode of _Grey's Anatomy_, she thought that crying after sex was probably not something that guys appreciated, especially not guys, like Puck, that believe themselves to be God's gift to all womankind.

Sure enough, he was soon going on and on about how if she thought she could find someone better than him, someone who would put up with her irritating personality, she was free to do so, because there were girls lining up to get with him and none of them talked as much as she did. This sent her into near hysterics, because she was trying to explain herself but it was just coming out in a blubbering mess, and he was being so _mean_ and she didn't understand where the hostility was coming from, or why he was suddenly ranting about her dad. She couldn't even understand what was being said anymore, just that Puck was really, really angry.

He eventually guided her to the truck, because her voice was probably carrying throughout the town and people would think someone was getting murdered. Once inside, she stopped sobbing (well, stopped sobbing _loudly_) and he stopped talking altogether, and the ride home was worst ten minutes of her life.

By the time he was pulling onto her street, she was seething. She wasn't quite sure why, except that she was mad at him for being mad at her. It made sense at the time. When the truck came to a stop, she climbed out quickly and slammed the door, not even caring if her parents woke up, because she knew how much he hated when she slammed doors. He peeled down the street and out of sight before she reached the front porch.

* * *

It's been twenty three days. She's not really keeping track on purpose, but she's pregnant and if there's one thing about her that has changed, it's that now she she's very aware of time. She's always kept a calendar, but now she marks the days off obsessively (one day doesn't seem like much, but it only takes seven to make a week, and a week can become a month in an _instant_, and she's pretty sure this whole thing will be over before she knows it), and it's not hard for her to do a quick tally while she's at it.

A lot can happen in twenty three days. In the past, it wouldn't have seemed like a great deal of time, but things are different now. She's gone from three months pregnant to four months pregnant, and therefore has gone from being bullied by a two ounce fetus to being bullied by a five ounce fetus – both involve spending inordinate amounts of time in the bathroom, unfortunately, but at least she doesn't have to stick her head in the toilet anymore.

Pulling at the waistband of her skirt, which is currently digging into her skin, leaving an angry, red line across her stomach and probably squishing the baby, she ruefully notes that twenty three days is also the difference between maybe needing to buy some maternity clothes and _definitely_ needing to buy some maternity clothes.

Aside from the craziness going on inside of her, things have changed on the outside, too. Her daddy no longer needs to be put on suicide watch, and her dad seems less angry. He was actually kind of chipper when she admitted that she might have screwed things up with Noah, which she doesn't quite understand, but she'll take it because their house almost seems normal again.

She thinks Puck's mom might have calmed down, too, because Finn told her that he's back in his own house. She would have rather heard this from Puck, of course, but he's said about ten words to her since that night, and most of them have been icy and abrupt, and none of them been uttered without prompting – she's sort of apologized a few times, in a roundabout kind of way (which is not fun, but at least she gets the satisfaction of being the bigger person), and he keeps saying that _it's fine, whatever, calm down_, but it's not fine, it's not whatever, and she won't calm down, because he's pouting like a little girl. That last bit came out during a one-sided argument (the only kind they have anymore) and she's pretty sure that it did more harm than good.

She's still holding out hope that he's going to actually forgive her, which is why she's saving him a seat in Glee this afternoon, like she's done every afternoon for the past three weeks. She's certain that one of these days, he'll sit next to her and start whispering bawdy jokes in her ear while Mr. Schuester is talking and things will be back to normal – whatever that is anymore.

When he enters, she pushes her jacket off the chair and offers a small smile. He ignores the gesture completely, which is unsurprising at this point, but it's still frustrating that today is apparently not the day. Her shoulders slump slightly, despite her best efforts to appear unaffected.

Much to her surprise, Kurt quickly fills the vacant chair. "Trouble in paradise?"

"What makes you think that?" She asks coolly, straightening in her seat.

"Well, you used to sit next to each other and bicker all throughout Glee and then make out once everyone else left the room."

She opens her mouth to deny this, but he keeps going. "You're not a particularly quiet person. Anyway, now you two barely look at each other – you don't even argue anymore. It's eerie."

"We're fine," she says in a clipped tone.

"You've been moping around here like someone destroyed your replica Elphaba costume and Puck has started throwing people in dumpsters again. Namely me," he says with a shudder. "So, spill."

She crosses her arms and looks to the floor, absently scuffing the heel of her shoe on the linoleum. "It's nothing. Why do you care, anyway?"

"I live for scandals, and this one just keeps getting better."

Rachel frowns. Somehow, knowing that someone else is enjoying the spectacle that her life has become doesn't make her feel any better.

"Listen, us girls are going to the mall after rehearsal. You should come. It will make you feel better, and, well…" he gives her a disdainful once-over before continuing. "…I hate to be the one to break this to you, but it's time for you to embrace elastic – that baby bump is out of control. I'll help you!"

Rachel places a self-conscious hand over her abdomen and eyes him warily. They've never been close (unless being close to scratching each other's eyes out counts for something), and she can't help but question his intentions. This could be some elaborate scheme that will humiliate her in the end.

"Why are you being nice to me? You hate me."

"Balderdash, darling. I couldn't hate you. This baby business, and more recently, this Puck business, has softened your incredibly grating exterior, so now you're just kind of pathetic, like those sad puppies on the ASPCA commercials. And even if I _did_ hate you, I wouldn't wish your wardrobe on my worst enemy – no way would I pass on the opportunity to get you out of those sweaters."

Rachel gapes, surprised and a little stung by his honesty. In a brief moment of clarity, she wonders if this is what other people feel like when she talks to them. But then she doesn't really have time to give it more thought, because Kurt is dragging her over to the other side of the room, where Mercedes and Tina are already discussing which shops to hit first.

* * *

"Put that down."

"Kurt, it's sensible."

"It's _horrible_."

"You've said that about everything I've picked out!"

"Then maybe you should just stop picking out ugly things," he shrugs, before yanking the dress out of her hands and replacing it with someone he had just pulled off the rack. "Now, if you added feathers to this, it would be outstanding."

Rachel exhales sharply. "Feathers? I don't really think that's appropriate for…"

She stops short, noticing that he's looking past her, toward the food court.

"You should eat something," he says suddenly. "You have to sustain little Puck Junior in there, right?"

Though she generally makes it a point to never step foot inside a food court (and now she feels slightly nauseous at the idea of a miniature Puck growing inside of her), cheap Chinese food suddenly sounds like the best idea ever. It occurs to her, as she follows Kurt out of the store empty-handed, that the torture she's just endured was all for naught, but she thinks she can squeeze into her looser dresses until the weekend, and then she'll try shopping again – sans Kurt – and none of that even matters because she's about to eat an egg roll, and that might just be the highlight of her week.

* * *

She should have recognized the set up – it was _painfully_ obvious, really, and now she feels like a complete fool. _Of course_ they would just casually run into Finn and Puck, and _of course_ those two idiots would insist that they sit at the same table, and _of course_ they would both disappear within seconds. Classic.

Kurt makes the first move.

"Oh, look at the time!" he cries, feigning shock. "I'm going to be late for my Bikram Yoga class!"

"You know _what_? I think I forgot that I was supposed to do…something. With my mom," Finn says, trying to suppress a laugh. Rachel can't help but note that she's a much better actor than he is.

"_Dude_," Puck hisses. "I'll fucking _kill you_."

"Well, this is perfect! I'll take Finn home, because it's _right _on the way to the studio, and then Rachel can get a ride with Puck!"

Rachel's eyes widen. "Kurt, _no_, I…"

"Excellent! Ta ta!"

Kurt gives Finn a shove in the other direction and soon they're gone.

Surprisingly, Puck is the first to speak. "I think we've been bamboozled."

"Yes, it would appear that way," Rachel huffs. "I'll move."

Puck shrugs. "Stay if you want – I don't care."

"Fine," she replies. "I will."

They sit in silence for several minutes, until Rachel can't stand it anymore. "Why are you at the mall? You're not a mall person. I'm not a mall person either, but Kurt took me shopping for maternity clothes."

"Finn and I were looking at throwing stars. I needed a new one for my fight club."

"Aren't those illegal? Do they even sell them here?"

"If you know where to look."

Rachel doesn't allow herself to analyze that statement, because she's pretty sure her head will explode if it really sinks in. Instead, she takes advantage of the fact that Puck is eating and decides that it's time to tackle their issues head-on. He'd never abandon a slice of pizza, so she's got him for at least five minutes.

"Listen, Noah, about…"

"Seriously, Berry, I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, I do," she replies. "So you can just listen, and then when I'm done speaking, you may reply if you wish to do so, in full sentences only – those caveman grunts you love so dearly do not qualify as actual words. This is called a conversation, and it would be highly beneficial for you learn how to engage in one properly. Can I begin?"

He leans back in his chair and scowls. She takes his lack of reply as permission.

"Good," she smiles. "I would just like to say that it I realize that what happened that night must have made you feel emasculated, and I…"

Puck snorts. "You _did not_ emasculate me."

"…realize that I've wounded your pride, and…"

"There you go, giving yourself too much credit again."

"…I know that you deal with things by _not dealing with things_, but…"

"So you're still studying for your Ph.D in Doctor Phil, I guess?"

"…I really feel that we should _talk _about this, and also…"

"You think we should talk about everything."

"…you need to acknowledge that you're at fault here, too…"

"Because nothing is ever just _your_ fault."

"…because I was trying to tell you why I was upset, and you weren't listening…"

"I was listening – how could I _not_ listen to you screeching like a motherfucking banshee?"

"…and it flustered me. You _fluster _me, Noah, _all the time_, and…"

"You're easily ruffled. A goddamn lightweight."

"…I've just been kind of freaking out about it, because according to the twenty year plan I created with my dads on my first day of kindergarten…"

"You are a total freak – you know that, right?"

"…I'm not supposed to fall in love for several more years – it could become a distraction, you know? So now I've deviated from the list _twice_, because…"

"It's not like I planned on falling in love with the craziest person I know either, and you don't see me crying about it."

"…having a baby isn't even on there, and…"

"Wait, love? Did you just say love?"

"…it's hard for me to accept that…oh, what? No. No, I did not. Did you?"

"No."

"Oh. Okay. Good, because neither did I."

It's abruptly quiet, and Rachel finds herself praying that the earth would just open up and swallow her whole. She's completely lost her appetite, but she keeps poking at her food because if she doesn't, she might look at him, and if she looks at him, she might _die_.

Puck finishes his pizza quickly (how he can eat at a time like this, she'll never know), and after a few seconds of hesitation, he begins to stand.

"Wait!" Rachel cries. "I lied. Just now? I was lying. I said love, and I know we're not there yet – we're miles and miles from being anywhere _near_ there, and it's just these _hormones_, so we can just forget it, if that's what you were wanting to do, but I don't want to lie to you. I said love."

She pauses, waiting for some kind of response. He sits, but doesn't speak. "This is where you say that you were lying too, because I _heard you_, Noah," she says with an exasperated sigh.

"I was lying, too. And…I mean, we _could_ forget it, or we could…not." The last part comes out as a nearly imperceptible murmur, but she hears it, and she's pretty sure her knees would be giving out if she weren't already sitting.

"Okay, this is what we're going to do," she says, her voice suddenly shrill. "We're going to go to our respective homes and think about this for awhile – I'll probably make a pie chart, and I'd encourage you to do the same, but a simple pro/con list will work if you don't have any poster board. Then we'll reconvene, share our presentations, and decide on the best course of action."

He moves his chair closer to hers. "Or we could skip all that and get…reacquainted. It's been awhile."

Rachel grimaces, pushing him away lightly. "I don't mean to hurt your feelings again, but I really, really need to make a pie chart first."

* * *

Puck is coming to realize that there's nothing in his life that he enjoys more than making Rachel Berry go totally fucking nuts, which is why his pro/con list consists of two sentences:

_Pro: Sometimes you're quiet. Con: You're usually not._

Her nostrils flare and she's kind of shaking a little after she reads it, and it's pretty funny until she stomps on his foot, and then it's just hilarious.

"What is wrong with you? I spent hours on these graphs and you're just being a _jerk_," she hisses, as if that's the worst thing he's ever been called. "And don't you dare roll your eyes, you foulmouthed, surly little man-child."

Puck _does_ roll his eyes, because _honest to God_, it's like she doesn't speak English sometimes. "I don't even understand the _point_ of this," he groans. "_What_ is the big deal?"

_I'll tell you what the big deal is_, he hears her say before she actually says it. That happens a lot now and it totally freaks him the fuck out.

"I'll tell you what the big deal is! We're _in love_ with each other. How are you not freaking out? Do you not see why I'm freaking out?"

He stares at her blankly. "No." It's a lie, because he does see why she's freaking out and he's probably going to start freaking out later, in private – not that he thinks he shouldn't have said it, but he's just never said it to anyone except his mom and his sister. He's pretty sure the right thing to do in this situation is share with her his uncertainty so that they can work through it together and come to a mutual understanding about the state of their relationship (Berry's rubbing off on him), but sometimes the right thing to do isn't the easy thing to do, and for now, he just needs things to be easy.

"It's one thing for us to be dating, and another thing entirely for us to be professing our undying love for one another," she says, flailing her arms dramatically.

"_God_, Rachel. You're going to have a stroke – just chill out."

_I will _not_ chill out_, she's going to say.

"I will _not_ chill out! We're so young, and it's such a big thing to say, and I'm surprised that I said it, because you are just _so _rude sometimes, and I'm _really_ surprised that you said it, because you're always going on about how unbearable I am, and my concern is that we're both just saying it because we feel like we should. I mean, ideally, two people about to embark on parenthood together _would_ perhaps love each other, but, in case you haven't noticed…"

"None of this is really ideal. Yeah, I've noticed."

"So, can we just take it back? Can we just forget about it for now?"

Puck shrugs indifferently. "Do you want to?"

She looks away from him, in the direction of her pie charts, and he sees her brush a tear away from her cheek, which is just really fucking _awesome_ – she's going to start _crying_ now, and they're in her bedroom, so her parents are going to hear her and then they're going to come up here and kill him for making her sad, when really she just cries _all the time_, for _no reason_.

"I…I don't really _want_ to, but…"

"Then _don't_," Puck sighs. "Why do you always have to make things so difficult? I love you, you love me, we're a happy family, _whatever_. Get used to it."

Fucking Christ, he just quoted Barney the Dinosaur. He feels the intense need to check his pants and make sure he still has balls.

Rachel raises her eyebrows and tilts her head. "Did you just…"

"I have a little sister."

"You're adorable."

"Don't go spreading it around."

* * *

**A/N: I hate this ending, but it seemed like the most natural place to stop it, because if I kept going, I'd have to resolve a few more things before I could end the chapter, and then it would take me **_**forever**_** to get it posted, and I really want to keep updating weekly for the time being (and that was all one sentence, yes). **

**So anyways, listen, guys: my classes start IN LESS THAN TWO WEEKS and I've looked over the syllabus for two of the courses and **_**shit**_**, I might as well just give up sleep because I'm going to need those extra hours to do my homework. I honestly have no idea what this means for this story. On the upside, I have the last chapter nearly done. On the downside, I could see three or four more chapters before I'm **_**ready**_** for the last chapter, and I really am just at a loss as to how I'll squeeze this in between the rest of my life. I'm **_**not**_** giving up on it, because I really, really love writing it and I love that you guys are reading it, but I can't make any promises about the time between updates anymore. It could be awhile. I'm sad about it. **


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: First of all, YAY, GLEE! GLEE KIDS, HOORAY! I nearly cried when they won the Golden Globe. They deserved it! They were all so cute, especially drunkity drunk DRUNK little Dianna Agron.**

**Second of all, I think I can end this is two or three more chapters. Maybe. We'll see.**

**Third of all, I watched Willy Wonka with my niece this afternoon and I forgot about the hardcore chocolate porn in the beginning. I want to rewind it and watch it over and over again. Just putting that out there.**

**FOURTH: Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed. I actually did attempt to reply to reviews last chapter, but I think the site messed up because none of the replies are in my outbox. Totally figures that I'd try to be a good person and then get thwarted by the website. **

"Bram Stoker. Twilight. Interview with a…?"

"I don't know. Pass."

"No! Think about it!

"I don't know!"

"They're immortal. They can't be in the sun. Ugh, Twilight. You _know_ what Twilight is about!"

"Telling me that I know doesn't make me know. I don't know! Pass!"

"Fine," Rachel growls. "Okay, Audrey Hepburn. Holly Golightly. Yellow diamond."

"Pass!"

"_Noah_. What is the first meal of the day?"

"Breakfast!"

"Yes! Breakfast at…?"

"Pass!"

"Blue. Lamp. _Audrey Hepburn_."

"I said _pass_!"

"If we pass, they get a point. Use your _brain_. AUDREY. HEPBURN."

"That meant nothing to me the first time you said it, and it means nothing now. Pass!"

A large stack of cards go flying past his head in that moment, and then Rachel is up from her seat and stomping out of the room. "It was 'Tiffany', you imbecile!" she yells, already halfway down the hall. She's done this at least ten times during _this game_ alone – he lost count of her storm-outs during Monopoly.

"We don't generally play Taboo, mostly because it's usually just the three of us and you can't play Taboo with three people, but also because sometimes Rachel can get a little intense with games like this, but then, you know that already – sorry again about what happened during Pictionary. Who would have thought a Sharpie could leave a mark like that?" Seth says, laughing nervously.

Puck nods, subconsciously rubbing the small bruise on his forehead, which he received after incorrectly guessing that the seahorse Rachel was drawing was a penis – he knew it was a seahorse, _of course_, but since when did he pass on a chance to annoy her? Plus, he figures if he's going to be stuck at her totally lame family game night, he might as well make it interesting.

It's been a few weeks since they dropped the L word, and things are pretty much the same. They still argue more than is probably appropriate – in fact, if he had to put his mediocre math skills to use, he'd estimate that ninety percent of their conversations are disagreements of some kind, and the other ten percent are her talking about something and him tuning her out, but occasionally adding an "hmm" so it sounds like he's paying attention. Then she usually realizes that he's not actually listening and they start arguing about it.

The only real different is that Rachel uses it as an excuse to make him do stupid stuff like this, because "it's what people do when they love each other." He suspects that that's complete bullshit, but he goes along with it (to a certain extent – he put his foot down when she started suggesting duets they could sing at the Berry's weekly family cabaret), because sometimes there's just no point in fighting the crazy that is Rachel Berry. So they play games with her dads and have dinners with his mom and sister and it's not like he enjoys it or anything, but there are probably worse things he could be doing.

A few minutes after her diva fit, Rachel stalks back into the room with her arms crossed and resting on her now prominent stomach and calmly reclaims her place on the sofa. "I believe that brings the score to six for us, and…seventy-two for Team Dad," she says, clearly pained by this fact. "I suppose it is time to concede. What's next? Apples to Apples?"

Puck suppresses a groan. They've been doing this family togetherness thing for hours, and he would really like to avoid any further injuries. "I should probably get out of here. My mom might start worrying."

That's not really true – his mom probably wouldn't care if he _never_ came home. She's still freaking out about the baby drama, and half the time, she just looks like she's about to cry every time she sees him.

Rachel looks unconvinced, but doesn't put up much of a fight, so after saying goodnight to her dads, he makes his way toward the front door.

"You need to be here by eight tomorrow morning," Rachel says, handing him his jacket. "Don't be late."

Puck scowls. Tomorrow is Saturday, and the only thing he does at eight in the morning on a Saturday is sleep.

"Don't tell me you forgot."

"I…didn't forget?"

Yes, he did.

"Yes, you _did_. You forgot!" She looks like might faint. "Tomorrow is the ultrasound. _The_ ultrasound. I told you yesterday – how could you possibly forget?"

He shrugs. "Distracted, I guess." Truthfully, yesterday was the first time he noticed that Rachel's boobs were way bigger than they used to be, and he had trouble focusing on anything else for most of the day, let alone whatever nonsense was coming out of her mouth.

"This is such a huge deal. Easily the most important thing that's going to happen until the baby is actually _born_. How could you _forget_? You're like a goldfish or something," she fumes, seemingly unaware that he said anything.

"Sorry. I'll be here."

"Should I call you when you…"

He kisses her, which shuts her up for about half a second.

"…get home? Will you forget in the ten minutes it takes you to get there? Should I tie a string to your finger? I mean, _honestly_…"

"I've _got _it, Berry. I'll see you at ten."

"Eight!" she shrieks, shoving his shoulder.

"Just wanted to see you do that thing where you eyes bug out of your skull. See you at eight."

He's pretty sure he can still hear her ranting indignantly when he reaches his truck.

* * *

The appointment is long and boring and he learns way more about Rachel's cervix than he ever wanted to know. He tries to occupy his time by looking at pictures of wrinkly babies and deciding which one is the weirdest looking, but that gets old because they're _all_ really weird looking. He'll love their kid no matter what, _obviously_, but he really hopes it doesn't look like an old man.

They're eventually led to another room and get started on the ultrasound, which actually is pretty cool. The kid has a total melon head, but the ultrasound technician keeps saying that everything looks really good, so he's just going to trust that it's normal.

When the tech asks if they are interested in finding out the sex, they answer in unison with a resounding yes. Puck is pretty sure it's a boy – he's not really sure why, but he's just kind of assumed – but a confirmation would be nice, especially since Rachel is totally convinced that it's a girl, along with half the Glee club (all the girls, plus Kurt).

After a few minutes of trying to decipher the grainy image, Puck is pretty sure he's been vindicated. "Are those the family jewels?" he asks.

The ultrasound technician lets out a surprised squeak before shaking her head. "Um, no, actually, that's a foot." She repositions the wand on Rachel's stomach and studies the screen intently. "Actually, it looks like…yes, it's a girl. Congratulations."

Puck feels like the wind has been knocked out of him. A _girl_. He's suddenly imagining tiny, more delicate, less obnoxious Rachel Berry, dependent on _him_. He knew that a boy would be just as reliant at first, but somehow a little girl seems like so much more responsibility. He shudders at the thought of _boyfriends_. He knows there's, like, eighteen years before that's an issue (much longer, if he's got anything to say about it), but still. He's going to need some time to prepare for that one.

He looks down to Rachel, who's smiling as brightly as he's ever seen and still somehow managing to bawl her eyes out. She loops her arm around his neck and pulls him into a kiss.

"What are the odds that you're not going to gloat about this?" he asks when they pull apart.

She thinks for a moment. "Slim to none."

* * *

Puck honestly doesn't have many ideas when it comes to naming the kid. He had some opinions when there was still a chance that it was a boy – he would have had _such_ a fucking badass name, like Maverick or Blade or something – but it's a girl and he doesn't really think there are many badass girl names, so he planned on just letting Rachel handle it.

But then, _surprise, surprise_, she started coming up with all these totally gay names for their spawn. She was sold on Idina Maureen Berry-Puckerman for an entire day and a half, and that one only passed when she watched _Fiddler on the Roof_ and suddenly decided that she couldn't possibly continue living unless they named the kid Tzeitel, and seriously, that shit isn't going down if he's got anything to say about it. He shot that one down fast, as well as the names that followed (if the kid after doubts that he loves her, first thing he'll say is, "I saved you from being named Hermione."), and then she was all, "You can't veto my suggestions unless you offer your own," which is how he ends up looking through books with pictures of fat, naked babies on the cover, making a name list like a fucking _girl_.

Her master plan is to have them both write down their favorite names and then any names that appear on both lists will then be merged into a new list, and from there, they'll make a decision. This would work if Puck had more than three possible contenders and if Rachel had less than three hundred, but as it stands right now, she is on her fourth sheet of college-ruled notebook paper, and he's writing on a napkin.

"Oh, my," she breathes, after several minutes of silently copying names to her list. "I have the name. It's perfect."

She's said that about the past twenty names she's seen, but he humors her to the best of his ability. "Oh?"

"We're going to name the baby…" she pauses for dramatic effect, grinning like a lunatic. "…_Maria_."

Puck blinks. "Funny."

Her smile drops. "I'm serious, Noah. I think this is it. Think about it. _Maria_."

"No."

"Maria! Say it loud and there's music playing. Say it soft, and it's almost like praying. Maria! I'll never stop saying Maria!"

"Quoting _West Side Story_ lyrics is not going to help your case here, Berry," he laughs, trying to ignore the fact that he just correctly matched a show tune to its musical.

"Oh! If she's ever in trouble, which is pretty likely with Puckerman genes, you know, we can sing _Maria _from _The Sound of Music_. You know, _how do you solve a problem like Maria_? That would be great. Not if she's in _real_ trouble, of course, because it's inappropriate to make jokes when disciplining a child – it sends mixed messages. But if it was just something little, that would be so fun."

"Forget it."

"I think Maria is a beautiful name," Kurt chimes in from across the room, and suddenly Puck really regrets letting Rachel convince him to do this in the choir room.

"You _would_," Puck sneers. "Back to the book, Berry. It's not happening."

She frowns, then begins singing under her breath. "_Maria, I've just met a girl named Maria, and suddenly that name will never be the same to me…_"

He has a feeling he'll be hearing a lot of that song in the coming days.

* * *

"It's just that I've had a deep, _personal_ connection to the role of Maria since…"

"…the age of one," Puck finishes. "I know. You've told me. A million times. It's not going to change anything. What if the kid doesn't even like _West Side Story_?"

"Bite your tongue!" Rachel cries. "What a horrible thing to suggest!"

"It could happen," Puck says with a shrug. "My badass genes could totally overpower your nerd genes. That kid is probably going to come out with a mohawk."

Rachel seems genuinely disturbed by this idea, and quickly launches into a lecture about what kind of traits are determined by genetics and what kind of traits develop due to social pressures, and he's too busy pretending to pay attention to notice the hockey player coming toward them with a slushie in hand.

Rachel's sharp intake of breath is the first thing he notices, and he's vaguely aware of something wet on his arm. He can hear scattered laughter echoing throughout the hallway, and then he realizes that what's just happened. His first instinct is to smash the punk's head against a locker, and he would do just that if it weren't for Rachel pulling him back.

"_Stop_, Noah. There's no point – it's not worth it. Just stop."

He disagrees, because the point is clearly to make him cry for his mommy, and _of course_ it's worth it. But Rachel is adamant.

He backs down and turns his full attention to her, and that's when he notices the way the wet fabric of her shirt is clinging to her stomach, and _fuck_, that's it. His kid is in there (and not just his kid, but his _daughter_, which somehow makes it that much worse), and he doesn't really know how that all works, but what if it can feel when Berry gets slushied? No one messes with a Puckerman or its incubator, especially not some twerp from the hockey team.

He's suspended for the rest of the week because he broke that little fucker's jaw, and he only has two regrets. The first is that he let Finn break up the fight before he could rearrange the rest of his face, and the second is that he let Rachel inside when she showed up on his doorstep after school.

"What were you thinking? You could have been _arrested_!"

"But I wasn't, was I?" He tosses aside the ice pack that he had been holding to his face before she came over (tending to one's wounds is _not_ badass) and unceremoniously drops onto the couch.

"What if this affects your eligibility for extracurricular activities? What if you can't be in Glee anymore?"

"It's _not_ going to _affect my eligibility for extracurricular activities_," he says mockingly. "It's happened before – it's not a big deal."

"But what was the point? Why risk it? The slushie hardly touched you."

Puck knows she hates when he laughs at her, but he can't help it. "You think I did that for me? Really, Berry? For such a smart person, sometimes you're just…not."

Rachel scoffs. "I beg your pardon! What is that supposed to mean?"

"It wasn't about me, it was about _you_ and the _kid_," he replies, relishing in the opportunity to use that slow, condescending voice she uses on him so often. "You think I'd just let that jackass treat you that way?"

She steps back and stares at him, her eyes fixed in a thoughtful frown. "You defended my honor," she finally says, realization softening her face.

"You're my baby mama," Puck shrugs. "What did you expect?"

"It was a really stupid thing to do," she says, easing onto the couch and curling up against him. She grabs the discarded ice pack and presses it to his cheek. "and in the future, I'd like to see you utilize more appropriate outlets for your anger. But…thank you," she says, kissing his jaw lightly.

He turns his head to meet her lips, and suddenly she's pulling back, gasping. He's afraid she's going to freak out again, which is seriously getting _old_, because _obviously_ they've already done worse than kissing, but then she grabs his hand and presses it against her stomach.

He opens his mouth to ask what she's doing, but she shushes him preemptively. "Just wait."

Seconds later, a light thump against his palm sends his hand flying away from Rachel's stomach. "Was that…? Did it just…?"

She nods, smiling, and brings his hand back. His first instinct is to pull away when he feels another kick, because this shit just isn't _normal_, but she's holding his hand in place.

"I've never felt it on the outside before," she says. "I think Maria is trying to let you know that she agrees with me. You should be more careful."

"I think she's just excited to hear that her dad is a total badass," he replies, ignoring Rachel's sudden glare (it's not like the kid speaks English yet). The baby kicks again, harder this time. "And just now? She said, 'No fucking way are you naming me Maria.'"

**A/N: Guhhh. I have to work in the morning and I stayed up to finish this, because my life is about to get stupid busy. My online classes technically start tomorrow (well, today, since it's after midnight). It's easy stuff this week, but it's only the beginning, and then my on-campus classes begin on the 25****th****. Boooo. **

**I am going to try and keep updating weekly, but who freaking knows? It might not happen. If this story isn't updated for weeks after this, blame college and know that I haven't abandoned you, my adorable readers+reviewers. **

**ALSO: I'm with Rachel on this one. I effing **_**love**_** the name Maria, and I don't care who knows it.**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: There's a large time jump between this chapter and the last (about 2 ½ months), and I apologize if it seems abrupt. Originally, this was supposed to be chapter ten or possibly eleven, but things are getting dire around here. After this, there's one more chapter (before the epilogue which **_**will **_**happen, but I can't offer any sort of timeline as to **_**when**_** it will happen). It needs maybe another thousand words before it's ready to go. The end is nigh. Prepare yourselves. **

**I sincerely appreciate anyone who has stuck with me through this ridiculously long break between updates. You're great! I meant to update this yesterday, but then my grandmother died and ugh, that kind of made yesterday really difficult. **

**Also, I edited this to the very best of my abilities, but it's 2 AM. I'll go through it again sometime tomorrow, but for now, let me know if there are any insane errors. **

For awhile, Rachel's predicament was the only thing she could think about. She was sixteen and pregnant and Puck was the father and they were dating or something, and maybe they actually liked each other a whole lot more than they planned, and it was just…bizarre, and the sheer insanity of the circumstances invaded all of her thoughts. Sometimes she was sure that she would wake up and find that it was all a strange dream, because what was happening her life couldn't possibly be reality.

With time, though, she's managed to move past the shock, and life seems almost normal.

Not that it's something she can just ignore – not even slightly. Even if she weren't being kicked from the inside every five minutes and looking as if she's swallowed a basketball, she's constantly reminded of her situation at school, usually via childish taunts from her classmates. She hasn't been slushied in weeks, thanks to Puck (the hockey player who threw the last offending frozen drink still can't eat solid food), but people talk. A lot. And she's not even sure why. It's not like she's the first girl in her school to get pregnant – she's pretty sure she's not even the first girl in her _grade_, but apparently, something about it happening to _her_ is just so much more scandalous. So, there's really no ignoring it at school.

At home, however, things are good. She wouldn't go as far as to say that her fathers are _excited_, but they are as supportive as they can possibly be. She never imagined that her unborn child would be the topic of dinner table conversations while she was still in high school, but now it is, and they've all accepted that.

She also never imagined that Noah Puckerman would become a permanent fixture in her life, but he is. She can never quite grasp how their relationship works, and sometimes she worries that the miraculous force that keeps them from murdering each other will disappear – she tries not to think about that much, though, and instead focuses on the fact that for now, they're okay.

When she really thinks about all this, it occurs to her that it's actually not normal _at all_. She's gotten used to it, though, and she thinks that might be the best she can hope for.

* * *

It's early April, and Rachel is well into her third trimester, which she mostly considers to be a huge relief. She's not really sure if she's prepared to tackle parenthood, but she's excited anyway, and eight weeks doesn't seem like very far away at all.

Except when she tries to do anything except lie in her bed like a beached whale. Because then it feels very, very far away.

She knew that things would get hard eventually, but she mostly just imagined that she would need help tying her shoes (luckily, she was a fan of flats anyway) and carrying her bag, and maybe she'd have to modify some choreography in Glee, if dancing became too much trouble. She could live with that. Ideally, she'd rise above her physical limitations and maintain the capable, self-sufficient persona that those around her had come to expect, but if she couldn't, she had made peace with the idea of asking for some help.

Of course, this was back when she was still in her second trimester and actually feeling relatively good. Now she's _enormous_ and can't even _locate_ her shoes, because the only thing she sees when she looks down to her closet is her stomach, and she's not going to ask her dads for help _getting dressed_, because that's just ridiculous and a line has to be drawn somewhere.

Glee has, rather ironically, become depressing. It's not the dancing anymore – she gave up on that awhile ago – it's the singing. Her uterus is practically crushing her diaphragm and she can hardly _talk_ without feeling out of breath, let alone hold a note for more than few seconds. She's been reduced to a glorified background singer, mostly of her own accord. She could still probably finagle a solo if she wanted one, but she knows that she couldn't do her best, and Rachel always does her best. She's not truly sure why she even goes anymore, except to brood about swollen ankles while watching them all dance and sing and have fun.

On this particular morning, she wakes up to find that she's slept funny during the night and can hardly move her neck, which really just cements the idea that she shouldn't bother leaving her bed today. It's a school day, and she can't even bring herself to care, which says a lot about her discomfort. She pulls the covers over her head and tries to go back to sleep, but soon realizes that she really needs to pee, and if she's going to exert the energy it takes to sit up, she might as well stay up.

It takes a great deal of time for her shower and get dressed (a large portion of that time includes the thirty minutes she spent sitting in the bottom of her closet, weeping and clutching her favorite, now-too-small argyle sweater, and then the ten minutes it took her to get up off the floor without any help) and she hardly has the chance to grab a granola bar before she hears a horn honking outside.

She's surprised that school is even in session, considering that northwestern Ohio is experiencing a record-breaking snowstorm. It's the largest accumulation of snow the area has seen in years, let alone in the middle of spring. Stepping onto the porch, she eyes the driveway warily. Her dad had tried to clear it before leaving for work, but it was a futile gesture – less than an hour later, it's already in worse condition than before. She's pretty sure it's up to her knees in some spots, and she spies a few patches of ice.

He honks again, then rolls the window down and sticks his head out. "What are you waiting for?"

"It's icy," she replies.

"You want me to carry you or something?"

"_No_, I don't want you to _carry_ me," she scoffs. "But you _may_ escort me to your vehicle, if you were planning on being a decent human being today."

That might not be the best way to get him to do what she wants, because it's clear that he's totally cool with _not_ being a decent human being, but she hopes that maybe he's in a chivalrous mood. She's not particularly thrilled with the idea of needing help crossing the lawn, but her center of gravity has shifted and she's worried that she'll slip and break her back, because really, it would just be her luck.

"Yeah, whatever," he mumbles, getting out the truck and grudgingly making his way up the driveway. When he reaches her, he puts an arm around her waist and pulls her close to him. "Better, grandma?"

"Much," she replies, gladly leaning against his side.

They make it halfway down the driveway before she feels the ground slipping out from under her. Puck is quick and she really doesn't even come _close_ to hitting the ground, but it still sends her heart flying into her chest. He won't readily admit this, of course, but she's certain it scared him too, because he practically flings her over his shoulder, caveman-style, a few seconds later.

"Guess I've had my work out for today." He pretends to struggle under her weight, which is _not funny whatsoever_.

"You're deplorable," she says, giving him a good shove when he enters the car, after depositing her in the passenger seat.

"I don't have my pocket thesaurus on me today. What's that one mean?"

"It means you're a huge asshole and a shitty boyfriend," she snaps, immediately blushing at her choice of words. She can count on one hand the amount of times she's cursed in her entire life – her fathers always told her that it was a sign of a poor vocabulary, and Rachel's vocabulary is anything but poor – she's just really uncomfortable and cranky, and it just kind of came out.

Puck looks pleased with himself. "Wow, Berry. Two in one sentence."

"You're a horrible influence."

"I try," he shrugs. "How's the spawn?"

"Maria is fine. All over the place, as per usual. I'm fairly certain one of her feet is lodged in my rib cage."

"She's probably getting back at you for calling her that."

Rachel sighs. Her hope is that if she just continues to casually refer to the baby as Maria, he'll eventually get used to the idea. So far, it's not working as she'd planned, and they're really no closer to naming the baby than they were two months ago. If anything, it's worse now. She won't even consider anything but Maria, and Puck won't even consider letting Rachel have her way. There's a good chance she may have to simply answer to, "Hey, you!" for the rest of her life.

"It's better than _Elektra_," she says, wrinkling her nose in contempt.

"You asked for suggestions!"

"_Serious_ suggestions, Noah."

"That _was_ my serious suggestion." Puck feigns hurt. "I've been having _dreams_ about it," he says, his tone uncharacteristically airy.

"Do not mock me! I've had dreams about a little girl named Maria every night for the past _month_. It's a sign."

"You keep dreaming about that stupid name because you're obsessed with it, and you're obsessed with it because you keep dreaming about it. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy, or whatever you call it," he says, looking quite proud of himself. "And besides, last week you had a dream that one of the puppets from _Avenue Q_ was trying to break into your house. Is that a sign, too?"

Rachel scowls. She _hates_ when he has a point.

* * *

The school clears out as soon as the last bell rings – most everyone is anxious to get home while the roads are still somewhat drivable. All the other clubs canceled their after-school activities, but Glee is going to meet anyway. They tell her it's because Regionals will be here in weeks and they need to stay sharp, and Rachel just _beams_ with pride, because obviously her impeccable work ethic is finally starting to rub off on the rest of them.

She's trudging down the hallway toward the choir room when Artie suddenly appears in front of her, stopping her in her tracks. "Uh, hi, Rachel," he says, a goofy smile plastered across his face. "What are you doing?"

"Going to Glee." Rachel tilts her head as much as her sore neck will allow, wondering what's gotten into him. She steps to the side and resumes her stride, only to have him wheel backwards and block her path again. She notices him steal quick glances at his phone.

"_Some_ weather we're having, eh?"

Glee is about to start and it will take her at least five minutes to waddle the short distance, and she's _not_ in the mood for shenanigans. "Artie, _move_."

"Just wait, okay, please?" he pleads, suddenly panicked. He whips out his phone again and sends a quick text message, and within seconds, Santana exits the choir room and marches toward them.

"You had _one _job, Artie," she hisses, sending him cowering down the hall. Rachel starts to follow him, but then Santana's in front of her, putting her hands on her shoulders and guiding her in the other direction.

"Unhand me!" Rachel cries, trying to pull against Santana's strong grip.

"Chill, Preggers," Santana scoffs. She stops in front of a bench and lets Rachel go. "Sit here. Do not get up until one of us comes for you. If you go _anywhere near_ the choir room, I'll kick your ass – when you're not knocked up anymore."

Rachel blinks, then does as she's told. She doesn't doubt Santana's threat.

Santana turns, muttering something about _working too hard on this shit to have it all screwed up_, and starts back down the corridor.

Rachel sits on the bench for _ages _(approximately twelve minutes), trying to figure out what they could possibly be doing in there that she's not allowed to see, when Puck finally peeks his head out the door and gestures for her to enter the room.

"Did Santana say it was okay?" she asks, pushing herself off the bench with a great deal of effort. "Because I'll have you know, she threatened to do me bodily harm."

"I told her to do that. Hurry up."

"Don't rush me," she huffs indignantly, slowly making her way to the door, pausing midway to catch her breath. "Your child is invading my lung space."

"Eh, you had more than enough to begin with," he replies, glancing inside the room again before propping the door open.

When she finally enters the room, it takes her a few moments to really understand what she's seeing. There's a table with a cake and a small pile of gifts, light pink streamers hang from the ceiling, and purple balloons cover nearly every surface. The whole group is standing together, smiling brightly.

"Wh…what is this?" she finally manages.

"What's it _look like_?" Santana says, sighing impatiently. When she is met with disapproving glances, she attempts to smile (it's really more of a sneer) and flatly adds, "It's a baby shower. Surprise."

Puck leads her to a chair near the gift table, and after sitting, she's quickly fitted with a tiara ("It's from my hope chest," Kurt says. "I'll need it back.") and a really tacky sash, which she thinks must have been Mercedes' idea, because she seems _way_ too excited about it.

Rachel tries not to get emotional about it, but it's useless because all she does anymore is get emotional about things. "I…I don't even know what to say. This is an incredibly kind gesture, and I'm just…" She tries to recall the speech she's practiced for when she wins her Emmy/Grammy/Oscar/Tony award, because it would probably work here, too, but her mind is blank and her eyes are watery, so she just sputters a quick "thank you" before gladly accepting a box of tissues from Artie.

"It was Quinn's idea," he says cheerfully. "She planned the whole thing."

Quinn shoots a pointed glare at the oblivious boy, then shrugs. "Everyone deserves a baby shower. Even _you_. And anyways, I had help."

"I tied balloons for five hours straight yesterday," Finn says proudly, showing off the blisters on his thumbs to prove it.

"And me and Santana picked out all the games," Brittany adds with a great deal of delight. Santana just looks pained.

* * *

The gathering begins like most baby showers Rachel's been to, with all of the guests playing silly games (though Rachel immediately puts a stop to the toilet paper game – no one needs to know how many sheets it would take to stretch across her stomach, and she doesn't care for anyone speculating, either) and ooing and aahing as she opens gifts (most of which are ridiculously expensive and impractical baby outfits from Kurt). Eventually, though, it turns into less of a baby shower and more of just a regular party, which is fine. It's not all that often that they engage in anything other than Glee-related activities, and Rachel is just pleased that they're all together, even if they've kind of forgotten that she's supposed to be the guest of honor.

She's eating cake (she's lost track of how many pieces she's had and is pretty sure she doesn't really want to know) and watching Kurt and Mercedes square off next to the karaoke machine, arguing over which one of them is more suited to sing _I Will Survive_, when Puck sits next to her.

"Having fun?"

"It's a great party," she replies. "I can't believe you knew about it and didn't tell me, though. Had I known, I would have prepared a thank-you speech."

"Which is exactly why I didn't tell you."

She scowls, but it's hard for her to look really upset, especially after he pulls out a gift and places it in her lap.

"What's this?" she asks, eyeing the package curiously. She was sure that she had opened everything.

"Just open it," he says, and she really doesn't need to be told twice. She hands him her cake and warns him not to eat it (he wouldn't dare), then carefully removes each strip of tape and pulls the wrappings away, revealing a beautifully knit, pink blanket.

"My mom made it. I think it's a peace offering or something."

Rachel smiles. "It's beautiful." She unfolds it to admire the skillful stitching (her grandmother tried to teach her how to knit in seventh grade, but she lacked the patience and gave it up, since it probably wouldn't help her get into Juilliard anyway) and her breath catches in her throat when she notices the embroidered M in the middle of the blanket.

She looks inquisitively to Puck while slowly tracing the letter with her finger. "Does this mean…?"

"Hope you're still set on Maria. My mom is going to be pissed if she has to redo it. We'll just have to name her Moonrock or something."

"But, I thought…I mean, just this _morning_, you were…"

"I like giving you shit, Berry. You should know that by now."

Rachel blinks a few times as her mouth opens and closes ineffectually. She can't decide if she's more thrilled that he's conceded or more enraged that he has been stringing her along for God knows how long.

"Now, before you get all victorious, I was kind of hoping that we could come to a compromise on the name thing," he says. "I was looking through the books again…the one with a list of Jewish names in the back? I saw one that I kind of liked, I guess, so maybe you can give her whatever weird first name you want, and I can pick the middle name?"

"I think that's a great idea, Noah," she says, and she really does mean it. The middle name place is where she had hoped to pass on her own middle name and continue paying homage to Barbra Streisand, but she's more than willing to make a sacrifice at this point – she just wants the baby to have a name, period. "What name do you like?"

"This is a unconditional offer, Berry. The name doesn't matter."

Rachel rolls her eyes. "I'm not going to rescind my approval, Noah. I just want to _know_ what name I've just agreed to bestow upon my child."

"It's not a big deal."

"I'm _going_ to find out, unless you were planning on hiding the birth certificate?"

At this, Puck grumbles and pulls a small paper from his pocket. He avoids eye contact as he hands it to her.

Rachel's confused frown gives way to a smile as she unfolds the paper. "Shira?"

"It means 'song'. I thought it was kind of fitting. Plus, it's in my family and I think it would make my mom happy."

"Noah," she says softly. "That is extremely thoughtful."

"It's cool with you, then?"

"Of course," she replies, scooting her chair closer to his. "You big softy, you."

"Yeah, whatever," he mumbles, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

Rachel generally doesn't like to engage in public displays of affection (she prepared a PowerPoint presentation about the appropriate times and places to touch one's girlfriend after he goosed her in front of the entire Glee club one afternoon), but he's just caved on one of the most epic disagreements they've ever had, and he deserves _something_, so she places a quick kiss on his cheek before intertwining her fingers in his.

"Oh my God, get a _room_," Santana groans from across the room. Rachel blushes slightly at this, but then turns a deep shade of red when Puck suggests that they actually do.

"The school's empty, Berry," he whispers, raising his eyebrows suggestively. "Could be fun."

"That is completely inappropriate," she gasps. "and I'm offended that you think I would ever have relations with you in a _janitor's closet_."

"Who said anything about a closet? I was thinking the locker room showers."

Rachel freezes for a moment, inwardly cursing the hormones that are making his proposition sound thoroughly enjoyable, then snatches her paper plate out of Puck's hand. "Let me finish my cake first."

* * *

Rachel wakes up the next morning to a deafening crash coming from somewhere nearby, followed by an intense string of expletives. She'd recognize his voice anywhere, and she briefly thinks that she _must_ be dreaming, because why else would Puck be in her house at seven o'clock on a Saturday morning, breaking things and cursing? She stays still, waiting to see if it happens again – for a second, she believes that she really did imagine it, because the house is quiet again.

And then a very loud, very clear, "Goddamn mother_fucking_ IKEA!" sends her clambering out of bed as quickly as she can manage.

She's not even slightly prepared for the scene unfolding in the spare bedroom across the hall. Puck is sitting on the floor, surrounded by a maze of unassembled furniture, empty boxes, and paint cans, with a look of frustration on his face that is so pitiful, she'd laugh if not for the fact that then he'd probably kill her.

"Noah? What are you doing?" she asks, slowly advancing toward him.

"Trying to put together this piece of shit crib," he grumbles, glaring at the heaps of wood as if they had personally slighted him.

"It's kind of early in the morning for this kind of stuff, don't you think? How long have you been here?"

"A few hours, I guess – your dads let me in," he replies vaguely, looking closely at an instruction manual on the floor. "There are no words in these instructions! It's all _pictures_. What kind of bullshit is that?"

It's early and she's going on four collective hours of sleep, and Rachel is sure this is all a hallucination. "You…what? You've been here for…_why_?"

"You've been freaking out about getting this done for weeks. I'm doing it. Is that a problem?"

"No, it's just that I'm surprised by your sudden initiative. What's gotten into you?"

Puck shrugs. "I couldn't sleep last night – I kept thinking about all the stuff we still have to do and how fast she'll be here. It's weeks now, you know? Like, _eight _weeks. I just wanted to get started as soon as I could," he says indifferently.

"You're nesting! That's really interesting – it's usually just women, but I have read that it happens to expectant fathers on occasion."

"What? No. I'm not _nesting_," Puck snorts. "I'm just getting crap ready for when the kid shows up. She can't sleep in a shoebox."

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about – it's a good thing!"

Suddenly, Rachel is wide awake and extremely excited. They can get so many things done now! After they finish with the nursery, she's going to see if he'll help her reorganize her closet (there's stuff on the top shelves that she can't reach), and she was also thinking about moving her bed to the other side of the room. "Let me take a shower and then I'll come help you."

"No, just go back to bed. I'm almost done."

"Then I'll help you get done faster." Rachel says, surveying the disarray surrounding them with skepticism. "Do you think we'll need a ladder for stenciling I wanted over the window frame? I'll get it, just in case."

He only groans in response.

* * *

It's ten o'clock in the evening, and they're sitting on the floor in the center of the room, admiring their handiwork. They've worked all day long, with occasional breaks for arguing and eating (and in Rachel's case, napping and peeing), and the nursery has come along quite nicely. It's still missing a couple small touches, but they've got a few weeks before they really have to worry about it. And really, even if they don't get around to putting up the framed Barbra Streisand lyrics (or if Puck accidentally-on-purpose sets them on fire), it's already a perfectly acceptable room for the baby to come home to.

It's getting kind of late, and Puck knows that he should probably get home (his mom will start calling soon, but probably not before Rachel's dads come up and kick him out), but they're both completely spent and he really doesn't want to move. Rachel is sitting between his legs, her back against his chest, and both of their hands are resting on her stomach. It's ridiculously matrimonial and far more natural and comfortable than either wants to admit.

The baby is kicking up a storm, like she does most nights. The novelty has worn off a bit for Rachel (she loves it during the day, but it's frustrating when she's trying to sleep), but Puck is still entertained by the little movements. Originally, it freaked him the fuck out, but now it's pretty much the coolest thing ever. Sometimes they can actually see the baby rolling around in there, though, and that's still pretty weird.

The kicks cease momentarily, so Puck presses gently on Rachel's stomach, where the baby's feet are currently located. A triumphant grin spreads across his face when there's a quick thump in response.

"You really shouldn't encourage this behavior. I've had several stern discussions with her about the appropriate times to kick, and now she's going to come out of the womb thinking that you can veto my rulings," she says, stifling a yawn.

"You ready to call it a night?"

Rachel nods. "I want to finish this song first, though."

Puck hadn't really been paying attention to the music in the background, but listening closer, he recognizes it as a song from _Wicked_. He finds it kind of ridiculous that her iPod has been playing on shuffle for the past fifteen hours and they have still yet to hear the same song twice. How much crappy music can one person own? He voices this concern and suggests that they blast some Nine Inch Nails up in here, but Rachel shushes him.

"This is our song, Noah. I want to hear it."

"_This_ is our song? No. No show tunes."

"Have you ever even listened to the lyrics? It's beautiful, tender love song."

Puck looks confused. He hasn't seen the musical (Rachel swears that one day she'll take him – he sees it as more of a threat than a promise), but she's described it multiple times, in _great_ detail. "Wait, isn't this the one that the two girls sing at the end?"

"Yes, but it's still a love song."

"So they _were_ lesbians! I knew the green girl was a freak."

"No! They were just…I mean, it's a theory, and I've read some very convincing fanfiction, but they both had relationships with Fiyero. It's a…platonic love song."

"I have a general idea of what that word means, Berry, and I'm pretty sure it _doesn't_ really describe our relationship, if you know what I'm saying," he smirks, poking her stomach (like she could possibly _not_ know what he's saying).

"You are so difficult," she grumbles, slapping his hand away before attempting to stand up. She ends up having to take his hand again so she can steady herself as she rises, but then she slaps it away again for good measure. She makes her way to the iPod dock on the other side of the room and restarts the song. The first few notes play before Rachel hits pause. "Be quiet, okay?"

He rolls his eyes. She's not really one to talk when it comes to being quiet. She's starting to get huffy, though, so he raises his hands in surrender. "Play the song."

She regards him suspiciously before pressing play. The music fills the room again and Rachel crosses her arms and cocks her head slightly, listening to the song as if she hasn't heard the cast recording a _million_ times before. Puck actually _does_ try to pay attention, and aside from the music coming from the speakers the room is still.

And then they get to the part about the other girl being with the green girl like a handprint on her heart, and he snorts a bit because that's so _gay_. "You really don't think these two were bumping uglies?"

Rachel pauses the song and gives him a steely glare. "Please refrain from sexual innuendo until after the song is over," she says, sounding vaguely like a flight attendant. The music starts again and though she is frowning, it doesn't take long for her to start softly singing along again.

When the song ends, she looks to him expectantly. Puck kind of gets where she's coming from, but he's so not into this sappy stuff, so he just shrugs. "Yeah, whatever. This can be our song, as long as I don't have to, like, call radio stations and have them dedicate it to you."

Rachel smiles lightly. "It's a deal."

* * *

**A/N: I do realize that I didn't actually accomplish anything in this chapter. I just really needed to write the fluff to counteract the drama that is my life. I promise that STUFF WILL HAPPEN in the next chapter. **

**Also, sorry for the random burst of Santana. I realized while editing that she's got an awkward amount of mentions in this chapter, and I just couldn't remove any of it. I have a deep, unbridled love for that girl.**

_**Also**_** also, in case anyone is insane and hasn't seen Wicked, the song mentioned is **_**For Good**_**. Clever, right? I know. If you haven't heard it, God, seriously, go listen to it.**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Well. This is the end. Kind of. Longer author's note at the end.**

The first contraction comes in the middle of her English class, two weeks before her due date. It is small – hardly anything, really. It's so small that she probably wouldn't have noticed, if not for the fact that she's sitting in class, counting the baby's kicks. So small that she brushes it off as one of the many random pains associated with pregnancy, and forgets about it as soon as it's over.

It happens again, maybe twenty minutes later, and she's not really concerned because it's practically over by the time she realizes it's happening. It's the same feeling as before – nothing horrible, just an unpleasant pinch in her lower back and stomach that lasts for half a minute, at the most.

She feels a few more over the next few hours – sometimes they're thirty minutes apart, and sometimes it seems like they're right on top of each other. They're not bad, though. She's read that it's not real labor until you can't walk or talk during a contraction. She's still able to do both, so she's fairly certain they're just Braxton Hicks contractions. She gets them a lot and usually, she just has to lie down for awhile and then they go away. She considers stopping in the nurse's office and resting for a few minutes, but Puck would lose his mind. He's been on high alert for a few weeks, and every time Rachel looks even vaguely uncomfortable, he's sure the baby is about to shoot out from between her legs. If she tells him that she needs to visit the nurse, he might have a heart attack.

It's toward the end of the school day when she starts to think that maybe this is more serious than she thought. The pain is becoming difficult to ignore and lasting for longer stretches of time. She's starting to have trouble sitting through class and ends up spending most of US History in the hallway.

During a particularly painful contraction, she braces herself against the lockers with her palms and squeezes her eyes shut.

"Rachel?"

Her head snaps up and she sees Finn, staring at her with wide eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asks, taking a hesitant step toward her.

"I think so. I'm just…I think I might be in labor?"

"Oh." Finn looks like he could faint. "_Oh_. Okay, um…hold it in there. I'll get towels from the locker room. I don't know how clean they'll be – is that a problem? I mean, it's just sweat and…stuff, but I don't know if…"

Rachel smiles. "It's not quite that dire yet, Finn, though I do appreciate your enthusiasm. Can you just go get Puck?"

Finn gives a quick sigh of relief. "I can do that. Are you going to be alright by yourself?"

Rachel nods, but she's betrayed by the look on her face as another contraction begins. Within seconds, Finn is supporting the weight of her body as she doubles over slightly, pushing against his shoulders. She lets out a small whimper, which is quickly drowned out by the sound of the dismissal bell.

The corridor is quickly flooded with students hurrying past them in every direction, seemingly oblivious to Rachel and Finn. They're spotted by Kurt just as Rachel's contraction eases.

He raises an eyebrow as he walks toward them. "What just happened?"

"Rachel's having the baby," Finn answers, his voice somewhat panicked.

"Maybe," she adds quickly. There have been a few false alarms, so she's hesitant to say it's the real deal, even though she has a good feeling that it is.

"Has your water broken?" Kurt asks.

"Not yet," she replies.

"Well, then, I'm going to ask that you maintain a safe distance from my shoes."

Finn eyes her with concern. "Are you feeling okay now, Rach? Can you walk?"

She nods briskly. "I'm fine."

Finn offers his hand as they start walking, and she gladly accepts it. They move at a slow pace down the hallway and somehow manage to collect a good portion of the Glee club along the way. By the time they reach Puck at his locker, he's the last to know that Rachel is in labor.

"Okay," he replies. She can tell that he's trying to appear as calm as possible, but his voice is noticeably higher than normal. "It's fine. Everything is going to be okay. I've got your hospital bag in the truck, so we can just go."

He grabs her hand and begins down the hallway, only to have Rachel hold him back.

"We need to let Mr. Schuester know that we won't be in Glee this afternoon."

"Someone else can do that. We need to leave. Right now."

"Puck, there's really no need to hurry. This is going to take awhile. All of the books say so."

"Fuck the _books_, Berry. You're not going to have this kid in the hallway. I'll drag you out of here if I have to."

Rachel rolls her eyes before turning to the group. "Would someone please explain our absence to Mr. Schuester when you see him?"

"Wait," Finn frowns. "We're not coming with you?"

"Well, of course you're welcome to come after school dismisses," Rachel says. "But you shouldn't skip classes for this."

"But what if we miss it?"

"I don't believe that's going to happen, but even so, you'll all have plenty of opportunities to…"

"Listen, I don't care who comes or when," Puck interrupts. "Follow us out of here and pile into the back of my truck if you want – I don't give a shit. But we are leaving _now_."

Rachel thinks Puck is being ridiculous, but she's fairly certain that there's no calming him down (mostly because he'll deny being even slightly panicked in the first place). If he had just read the books that she had picked out for him, he would understand that the baby is probably nowhere near being born – she's fairly certain they're still sitting in a Barnes and Noble bag on his bedroom floor.

"Well, I'll at least have to go to my locker and get my purse," she says. Puck seems to agree to this, so she quickly adds, "And I'll just stop by my remaining classes and get the homework assignments while I'm at it."

"Don't push it," he snaps.

Half an hour and several panicked rants (on Puck's part) later, they're pulling out of the school parking lot. Rachel reaches behind her to seat to grab her hospital bag and the color quickly drains from her face. This does not go unnoticed by Puck.

"What is it? Oh, fuck, Rachel, _do not push_. I can be at the hospital in fifteen minutes if I don't worry about red lights. Just…breathe or whatever," he says.

"I'm fine, Noah. It's not that. I just…I took the bag out last week to pack a few more things, and I think I left it at my house."

Puck groans. "No. No way are we going to your house. That's ten minutes out of the way."

"But everything I need is…"

"What you need is to be at the hospital right now. Your dads can bring the bag later."

"My _favorite_ socks are in that bag, Noah! I have to have it."

"They have socks at the hospital. It's not like we're not going to get the bag at some point."

"I will _not_ be wearing hospital socks for any length of time. And my birth plan is in there, too. I won't be able to remember everything off the top of my head!"

"I remember the birth plan: go to the hospital, have the baby. You'll be fine."

At this, Rachel growls. _Literally_ growls. Puck's eyes go wide.

"Now, you listen to me, Noah Puckerman," she says, her voice frighteningly low and authoritative. "I'm about to endure the most painful experience of my entire life, and unless you get eaten by a shark or something, you will never have any idea what I'll have had to go through to give birth to _your baby_. So don't tell me that I'll be fine, because you have _no idea_. I'm officially taking charge of this situation, and from here on out, my word is final. You are to do anything I ask of you, and I swear to God, if you don't, you will rue the day for the rest of your life. Is this clear?"

Puck swallows hard, then makes a quick U-turn toward Rachel's house.

* * *

The mood in the hospital suite swings continually from one extreme to another. Rachel is so tired of being pregnant that she's deliriously thrilled to be in labor, regardless of how painful it's going to become. She can't wait to meet their little girl and she's practically vibrating with excitement, knowing that the time has almost come.

Puck, on the other hand, is horrified because he hates hospitals, especially when someone he cares about is there and in pain (and he does care about Rachel. A lot). The nurses keep telling Rachel that she is handling labor well, and Puck wonders what people are like when they _don't_ handle labor well, because she seems pretty fucking miserable to him. But maybe that's just because he's around her enough to realize that it's a bad sign when she stops talking.

When they first got to the hospital, they took a lot of walks up and down the corridors, and Rachel seemed to be doing pretty good. At one point, he came back from the cafeteria to find her happily swaying back and forth on a giant ball. He kind of figured that labor was probably not as big of a deal as she made it out to be, since she could do stuff like _that_ (he voiced this idea and she almost ripped his face off). He thinks he must have jinxed it, because now everything's super intense, and all she's doing is laying on the bed, moaning and shit, and he has no idea what to do.

When the contraction subsides, she always pulls herself together quickly and informs him that it wasn't so bad, and he wants to say, _Are you fucking kidding me, Berry? You looked like your head was about to explode_, but he doesn't, because her nurse threatened to kick him out if he cursed _one more time_, because it creates an inappropriate and unsupportive environment for a laboring woman, or some motherfucking New Age bullshit like that.

The Glee kids and Mr. Schue (and her dads, though mostly just Pete, because Seth has almost fainted twice) have been trickling in and out of the room, in rotations of two or three people at a time, for the past several hours, and it's a welcome distraction from the only other things he can do in this room – watch Rachel practically writhe in pain, or watch _Cops_ on the small television affixed to the ceiling. The latter is way boring because he's already seen this episode twelve times, and the former gets to be pretty unbearable after awhile. The conversations are usually pretty stupid, and Puck normally wouldn't even pretend to be interested, but he can talk about Marc Jacobs with Kurt if it means a few seconds where the worries in his mind are pushed to the side.

Rachel seems to enjoy the company as well, though she makes everyone clear out of the room as soon as she feels a contraction coming on. She's not big on showing weakness in front of others, unless she's acting it out on stage or conveying it via song, and it's hard to exert any sort of self-control when in the throes of labor. It's getting to be sort of ridiculous, though, because no one can stay in the room for more than a minute at a time – he's pretty sure they realize that it's not even worth the trip at this point, and he's kind of touched (in a totally non-emotional, non-gay way) that they're still making it a point to come in.

Eventually, the contractions start coming with only seconds of relief in between, and the visits come to an end, though her dads stay behind at her request.

It's two in the morning. He can't really figure out if the past thirteen hours have gone incredibly fast or incredibly slow. All he knows is that he's deliriously tired. He doesn't really want to bring it up, because Rachel is doing way more work than he is and _she's_ not complaining, but he could really use a power nap or some Red Bull. Her dad has been helping her through the last few contractions, so he seizes the opportunity to get out of the room for a few minutes.

The scene in the waiting area resembles the choir room in the moments before and after Glee practice. Mercedes and Kurt are having an animated discussion about God knows what (probably something totally gay), Tina is sitting in Artie's lap, her head on his shoulder (he briefly wonders if they've done it yet – not that he cares or anything, but they're totally into each other), and Santana and Brittany have fallen asleep in a rather precarious position (he _knows_ they're doing it). Finn, Mike, and Matt are discussing a video game, and Quinn is reading some girly book. She's the first to notice him in the doorway.

"How's man-hands?"

The room is silent now, and all the attention is suddenly on Puck.

"Okay, I guess. Those contractions don't mess around."

"How much longer will it be?" Artie asks.

"Can't really say, you know? You guys can go if you want. I know it's a school night."

"We've been here all day long. No way in hell are we leaving before we see that baby," Mercedes replies.

"I don't usually go to bed until three or four anyway," Mike adds with a shrug.

"Suit yourself," he says, before finding an empty chair next to Mr. Schuester and sinking into it with a sigh. He's pretty sure he'll pass out if he closes his eyes, but he almost can't help it.

"Doing alright?" Will gives him a quick pat on the shoulder.

"Yeah, just tired," he replies. "Sitting in a dark room with Rachel Berry for half a day really takes it out of you, you know?"

The older man smiles. "You're good to stick it out with her. I'm sure she appreciates it."

Puck gives a non-committed shrug. He's just about to allow himself to sleep when Rachel's nurse enters the room. "She's asking for you."

* * *

Rachel has changed her mind. She's not tired of being pregnant. She'd like to remain pregnant forever, actually, if that's alright, because childbirth could quite possibly be the death of her. She's managed to keep it together for _thirteen hours_ (and approximately 300 horrifyingly painful contractions), but now they just keeping coming over and over again and she feels like she's run a marathon already, and she hasn't even started pushing. She has no idea how she'll muster the strength, but she's going to have to figure it out, because the doctor wants her to start as soon as Puck returns from wherever he's slinked off to. She knows she shouldn't be too hard on him, because this is literally the first time he's left her side since she was admitted to the hospital, but he could have _said_ something before leaving her to _die_ at the hands of her uterus.

Speaking of the little miscreant, he's walking toward her now, and soon he's back at her side. "Sorry," he says, taking her hand in his (she wants to object, because she's mad at him, but she lacks the will – a first for her). "What's up?"

Before she can answer, another contraction crashes through her body in a violent wave, and she fights the unbearable urge to push with all her might. She hates this. None of the visualization or breathing techniques she's learned have helped at all, and she suddenly abhors all the music on playlist she spent weeks creating. The only time she feels relief is when Puck lets her squeeze his hand (and even then, it's not much).

The doctor enters the room, and with her comes a flurry of activity. One nurse begins prepping the doctor's instruments, while another is setting out supplies for the baby's imminent arrival. Puck's eyes grow wide at the sight.

"Alright, Rachel, we're going to start pushing with the next contraction, okay?"

The doctor's voice is authoritative but calm, and it puts Rachel at ease – somewhat. She acknowledges her command to the best of her ability as the nurses help her into a pushing position.

The color has drained from Puck's face completely. Rachel's not really sure why – he knew that this part would be coming up eventually, right? She offers him a small smile and promises that everything will be fine, even though she's pretty sure that's his job.

He nods and gives her a quick kiss on the cheek. "You're doing great."

She doesn't feel like she's doing great – she kind of feels like she's being ripped in half. But she appreciates the sentiment.

Rachel feels a contraction building, and apparently it's obvious, because there are suddenly a million people hovering above her, telling her what to do. Their faces and words run together and nothing makes any sense, except Puck in her ear, telling her to breathe. The need to push is like nothing she has ever experienced, so she gives it all she's got. The pain is unreal, and for the first time since this all began, she finds herself unable to keep from crying out.

"Good, Rachel!" The doctor smiles enthusiastically. "Really, really good."

"Is she almost out?" Puck asks.

"It's going to take more than that, I'm afraid. Try again, Rachel, on the count of three."

The whole room counts together (she finds herself muttering, "I know how to count, thank you very much", then immediately apologizing and feeling like she might cry for being so mean), and when it's time, Rachel bears down. She screams again, louder this time. She really does wonder how anyone survives this kind of pain, or if they even do. Perhaps this is what it feels like right before you die.

This goes on for what feels like hours, the pushing and the screaming and baby _not coming out_. The doctor keeps telling her that she's fine, that the baby will be here soon, that she just needs to keep pushing, that she can't give up.

Which isn't exactly what she wants to hear, because she would very much like to give up. It's painful to admit, even to herself, because she's never given up on anything ever, but this? This situation right here? She'd like it give up on it. If they could just knock her unconscious and then dig the baby out, that would be outstanding.

She locks eyes with Puck, who appears to be just as worn out as she is. "I need a break," she whispers. "We have to stop. I can't…I can't do this."

"Yes, you _can_ do this. It's almost over."

"You don't know that!" she shrieks. The tears are falling now, and she feels like she's completely out of control. She needs a minute to catch her breath and pull herself together. "I can't do it. It's been hours and nothing is changing and it _hurts_. It hurts _so bad_, and I'm trying so hard and I'm _failing_. She'll never come out. Just let her stay in there. Don't make me do it again. I _can't_."

Puck is shocked silent – he's never seen her like this, and he has no idea how to react.

The doctor speaks up instead. "You are _so_ close. Give me three more pushes, and if the baby isn't here, we'll reevaluate, okay?"

Rachel frowns, but consents. Three pushes are equal to less than five minutes and as much as this is killing her, she can do anything for five minutes. She can handle three pushes.

Luckily, it only takes two.

She feels like her entire body is on fire, and the tears in her eyes make everything seem out of focus. She's certain that she's sobbing, but all she can hear is her rapidly increasing heartbeat. She has no concept of time. Every second feels like hours – hours and hours and _hours_, and now she can't remember what it feels like to not be in pain.

One more push, and then it's over. The lusty cry of a new baby fills the room at 4:36 in the morning.

It's a blur, after that. They put her on Rachel's chest and she's pink and perfect and she has _so much hair_, and she loves her so much and she's already having trouble remembering life before her face. They clean the baby without even removing her from Rachel's grasp (which is a good thing, because she's pretty sure she wouldn't be able to let go) and then quickly swaddle her in a blanket and put a small, pink hat on her head. She's still, now, and Rachel thinks this little person must be a genius, because her furrowed brows and wide-open eyes give the impression that she's thinking quite seriously about something.

They lay silently for several minutes, despite the hustle and bustle going on around them. As far as Rachel is concerned, the only people who exist in this moment are her and the baby. And Puck.

She looks to him just in time to see him covertly wiping away a tear (he immediately says something about having "a fucking eyelash in there"), and her heart is just _bursting_ with every emotion she can possibly imagine.

"Do you…do you want to hold her?" She's never been great at sharing, and she really, _really_ doesn't want to stop smelling the top of her baby's head (it's the most perfect scent in the world, she's decided), but she knows that he should meet her, too, and she would also appreciate a few minutes of sleep.

He nods, but she can see the reluctance in his eyes. "You'll have to show me how to do it again. I kind of forgot."

Rachel tries to hand the baby to him, but her arms are like jelly. "Just put one hand under her head and the other under her bottom. It's not hard – she's really tiny."

He follows her instructions with great care, and the image of their daughter snuggling against his shoulder is the last thing she sees before allowing sleep to wash over her body.

* * *

"The most beautiful sound I ever heard, all the beautiful sounds of the world in a single word. _Maria_," Puck whispers, gently swaying back and forth. The baby is nestled in the crook of his arm, sleeping peacefully. "Hey, kid, your mom can't know about this, okay?"

"Too late," Rachel mutters, her voice heavy with sleep. "It is becoming quite clear to me that you, Noah Puckerman, are a sentimental man."

Puck turns around to find her sitting up in bed, smiling. It's been a little over an hour since the baby showed up, and Rachel has been sleeping on and off since then. He was nervous, at first, about having to hold the baby and stuff without her guidance, but she definitely needed the rest, and help was easy to find – his mom had come up as soon as he called, and Pete and Seth had stuck around, too. And anyway, it wasn't so hard to take care of a baby.

"How is she?" she asks. She puts her hands out hopefully. "Can I?"

Puck passes the baby to Rachel, careful to keep the little one from stirring. "She's been good. Hasn't even cried."

"Good," Rachel sighs, holding the baby close to her chest. He notices her lower lip trembling slightly.

"Are you okay? She's really been fine, if that's…"

"No, it's not that. It's just…I don't even know. She's so perfect, and I'm just so…_happy_, and I just can't stop crying," she sputters, the floodgates bursting open. "I'm sorry. I think I might be going crazy."

"I could have told you that, Berry," he says, adding a wink for good measure – who knows if she can handle jokes in her clearly fragile state of mind?

Thankfully, she laughs.

"Did everyone go home?" she asks, looking past him, toward the clock on the wall.

"Yeah, they left after I did a quick _Lion King_ style introduction out in the waiting room. They'll be back in a few hours, though. Mr. Schue said he would get Principal Figgins to excuse their absences, so they plan to come by at breakfast time. I think it's going to be a long day."

She sighs and lets her head fall back against the pillow. She's absently stroking the baby's fuzzy head, and it's doing things to Puck that he can't even explain. Seeing her with the baby, _their_ baby, makes him swell with pride, in some weird, primal way that totally creeps him out.

He can tell that she's still exhausted, so he offers to take the baby back while she rests, even though he's been awake for twenty-two hours himself. He figures this is just the first of many times that he'll be taking one for the team.

"I want you to wake me if she so much as whimpers."

"I'm going to hold you to that for the next year."

She's either pleased with this answer or really just too tired to fight it, because she hands the baby off without another word, and her light snoring fills the room within minutes.

Puck takes a seat on the bedside chair and drapes a receiving blanket over the warm bundle on his chest.

"Maria, I've just met a girl named Maria, and suddenly that name will never be the same to me."

He is pretty sure that truer words have never been sung. Even if they come from a totally gay song in a totally gay musical.

* * *

The group shows up at ten in the morning, and somehow they manage to sneak past the nurses station and squeeze everyone into the small hospital room at the same time. Puck seems a little on edge (probably because he _still_ hasn't managed more than half an hour of sleep), but Rachel doesn't mind the intrusion. They're talking and hugging and laughing and crying (well, Rachel is crying – she's all but given up on keeping it quiet at this point) and passing the baby around the room, and it's perfect. Rachel finds herself wondering when, exactly, these people went from being her teammates to being her dear friends, because what's happening here in this room is the very picture of love.

The baby lands in Santana's arms, and she handles her with surprising ease. Most everyone else fumbled a bit when they first got her, as it had been one of the first times that many of them had held a baby so tiny, but Santana is an obvious pro. When she starts _smiling_, Puck feels the need to tease her about it.

"I have a lot of cousins, and I'm pretty good with babies, okay?" she says nonchalantly. "Shut up about it."

"She kind of looks like my Opa Frank," Brittany says, peering at Maria from over Santana's shoulder. "He is really cute," she adds reassuringly.

Maria starts squirming a bit and sucking on her fingers, and Santana promptly holds the baby out for someone to take her. "She's hungry."

"Right on schedule!" Rachel beams, quickly jotting the time down on a piece of notebook paper. "Noah, can you get me a blanket?"

"I swear to God, Puck, if your kid roots on me," Santana warns, holding the baby as far away from her chest as physically possible.

Puck gathers Maria in his arms just as she starts to become impatient and lets out an angry squawk. "Shh, you're okay," he coos, rocking her gently. He places a light kiss on the baby's head before handing her to Rachel. When he turns around, everyone is staring at him with looks varying from amusement to confusion, and he doesn't appreciate it.

"Everybody out – Berry's about to whip out her boob."

"Don't be crude, Puck," Rachel admonishes. "I'll be covered. They can stay if they'd like."

Puck rolls his eyes. "The girls can stay. Any guy that isn't me has to leave. Except Kurt, I guess."

Kurt looks like he might throw up. "No, thank you."

"On second thought," Puck adds. "Brittany and Santana, you're out, too."

Santana scoffs indignantly but grabs Brittany's arm and leaves with the boys anyway, leaving Quinn, Mercedes, and Tina alone in the room. They all share a look, then quickly say their goodbyes and follow the rest of the group into the hallway. They barely have time to get through the doorway before Puck shuts the door behind them.

"Finally," he breathes. "Some peace and quiet."

"I'm glad they came," Rachel says. "They're good friends."

"They'll be back soon," he replies. "How's it going?"

"It hurts a lot," she admits softly. "but it's okay. She seems to know what she's doing."

"Let me know if you need anything," Puck says, climbing into the bed with her and draping an arm across her waist. He closes his eyes and lets out a tired sigh as she leans against him.

"We'll be fine. You should try to sleep."

"I'm good," Puck says with a shrug.

"You could go back to your house for awhile and take a nap. My dads should be back soon – they'll keep me occupied."

"I'm not going anywhere," he replies. "I'm happy right here."

Rachel's sure that the mixture of postpartum hormones and sleep deprivation are making her read far too much into his statement, but she still gets a little teary-eyed as she whispers, "Me, too."

She finds herself thinking back on the past nine months and all the ways her life had been changed. It was an accident. Obviously. No one plans to get pregnant in their sophomore year of high school, and _no one_ plans to get pregnant by Noah Puckerman _ever_. However, she can't help but think that maybe the best things are never really part of the plan anyway.

**A/N: OH MY GOD LOOK AT THAT CHEESY ENDING. **

**There will be an epilogue, and you might as well call it an epic-logue, because **_**that's how long it will be**_**. It's ridiculous. **

**There will be a much longer author's note at the end of that chapter, but just in case something horrible happens (like I have to start really **_**really**_** focusing on my schoolwork and the epilogue doesn't come for months), I really want to say, from the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU. I love you guys. This has been the best fanfiction experience I've ever had, and I swear, the only reason that **_**this**_** is the second fic I've ever finished is because you guys have been SO supportive. **

**Now, if the 300+ of you who get an e-mail every time this story is updated would like to be extra supportive, I'd be so happy to hear what you think. Even if all you want to say is that you hate the story but never bothered to take it off Story Alert and you're just so glad that you won't be getting e-mails about this shitfest anymore*, that's TOTALLY COOL AND AWESOME.**

***Don't really do that. I'd cry.**


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